


Living Nightmare

by warrior_sif



Series: No Deal Timeline [2]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I'll add more as I go, I'm really bad at tagging, The Refuge, Violence, chapter 5 is violent, fair warning, let me know what to add, ummmm...., yeah they're still kids so I think I have to tag that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-03-06 16:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13415175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warrior_sif/pseuds/warrior_sif
Summary: Race and Jack are picked up and brought to the Refuge.  (Jack is 13, Race is 11 in this fic).  Jack is a self-sacrificing idiot/over-protective big brother and Race is out of his league.Can be read as a stand-alone, but I really recommend reading "When Manhattan Met Brooklyn" for background on Jack, Race, and Spot.





	1. Jack

**Author's Note:**

> Again, Jack is 13 here, Race is 11. I should also mention that Crutchie's not around yet.

“Jack, I’m eleven now, ya don’t have ta keep walking me to the racetracks every day,” Race whines.

 

Jack wraps his arm around Race’s shoulder, “What if I jus’ like walkin’ with my best friend ev’ry day?” Jack laughs when he sees Race’s face scrunched up with reluctant acceptance. “Anyways today’s poker day so maybe I just want to see my friend Spotty.”

 

“Pffft,” Race spits. “Why’s ya got ta keep callin’ him that Jack? You guys argue about it every time.”

 

“It’s tradition,” Jack smiles and pauses a moment to release Race’s shoulder to sell a pape to one of his passing regulars.

 

Well, regular isn’t exactly right word now that Jack thinks about it. He’s seen the guy more than once, and he always buys a pape when they cross paths, but it’s not like Jack sees him every day. Thirteen years old and he still doesn’t have a regular selling spot. In this aspect, Race is doing better than him. Just last month, he’d had to comfort Race through the loss of one of his regulars whose daughter had come around to tell Race he’d died. She’d been nice about it and all, telling Race how happy her father was after he’d come home from the races winning on Race’s suggested bets and overjoyed to see such a young man interested in racing, but the news had _ruined_ Race. They were just now approaching a sense of normalcy again.

 

Soon enough, their pause to hawk papes ends as Race runs back over to Jack. “But you _know_ Spot doesn’t like ya calling him that.”

 

Jack laughs, “Yeah, and he knows I don’t like being called Kelly and here we are.”

 

“You don’t care,” Race counters. “You’s just saying that ta make ‘im mad.”

 

Jack shrugs, smirking, Race thinks he’s got him figured out, does he? “Maybe, maybe not.” Race punches him and he pretends it hurt.

 

“ ‘S your funeral. He’s the one with all the muscles now. Everyone else in ‘hattan’s scared of im. Thinks he’s tons older than us.  And scary.”

 

Jack nods at the truth to Race’s statement. He doesn’t know if it’s on purpose or not, but rumors of Spot’s ruthlessness have spread through the newsie boarding houses like the flu in winter. Jack thinks it’s mostly an act put on to keep people from challenging Spot’s place in line for the throne, but he’s yet to change how he acts around Race and him. Nevertheless, Jack’s told Race he should stop mentioning his visits with Spot unless he wants Blue to try and put a stop to them.

 

“Eh, Spotty won’t ever hurt me. He knows ya care about me too much,” Jack smirks. While he and Spot may be on friendly terms, Race and Spot are definitely closer.

 

Jack can hear Race hum in response. They’ve reached the bridge now and they pause just before crossing to hawk a couple more papes.

 

“Ya know Racer, maybe’s you right,” Jack cautiously mumbles.

 

“ ‘Bout what? I’s right about a lot of things ya know,” Race beams.

 

It’s Jack’s turn to playfully punch Race, “Ya sure is Racer.”

 

“So what do ya think I’s right about,” Racer questions, teasingly raising his eyebrows.

 

“Well, ya _are_ eleven, so yous probably okay to get yerself to the racetracks. Pickles let me sell by myself when I was younger than yous-“

 

“Really Jack!?” Race envelops him in an uncomfortably tight hug, his bag of papes pressed between them. “You’s really gonna let me go by myself?”

 

Jack carefully extricates himself from Race’s embrace, “I mean ya don’t have ta, I can still come.”

 

Race looks at him, mouth wide is surprise, “I want ta – but I also – it’s poker day-“

 

“Racer, we’s been over this. You’s got ta talk slow enough that my ears can understand ya,” Jack whines. After a moment of silence with Race still staring at him in shock, Jack continues, “I thinks I got what ya was saying though. Yous not abdonin’ be Racer, I’s plenty old enough ta sell on my own and you is right, I should trust ya to take care of yerself.”

 

Race pulls Jack back in to a hug again and Jack can feel his smile widening.

 

“Thank ya Jack!” Race smiles up at him, still yet to release him from his hug.

 

“Aw, whatever Racer,” Jack playfully pushes him away, “You’s better get goin’ before Spotty thinks ya decided not to join ‘im today.”

 

Race hesitantly takes a couple of steps away from Jack, down the bridge towards the racetracks, before looking back at Jack, “See ya later Jack!”

 

“Don’t spend all yer earnings playin’ poker later!” Jack calls back.

 

Jack stays at the edge of the bridge and hawks papes as he watches Race make his way away from him, knowing the second he’s out of sight the uneasiness and regret will sink in. “Racer’s eleven Jackie. You’s got ta stop babyin’ ‘im,” he mumbles to himself. Every since he found the kid, he’s been entirely too protective of him.

 

The last thing Jack expects to hear as he continues to sell his papes at the edge of the bridge, it’s a surprisingly good selling spot he notes, is a man’s voice yelling out his name, “Kelly!” He whips his head around to see two bulls running in his direction, already chasing some poor kid. A poor kid with a blue and green plaid shirt. And a brown newsie cap. Race.

 

Jack drops the paper in his hand and starts running towards the kid, whose looking at him, eyes wide with fear as he runs closer. “Racer, keep running. Remembers what I told ya!” Jack yells at him as he passes him, before coming to a stop between the bulls and Racer. He sets his feet in to the ground and braces himself for the inevitable, hoping Racer has the sense to keep running.

 

A small hand wraps around his wrist and pulls him back towards Manhattan. Jack whips around to find Race. The bulls are coming ever closer, too close now for him to have the time to lecture Race and try and convince him to run away on his own, so Jack lets Race pull him away and jumps in to a run himself.

 

“Racer! What’s you thinkin’?” Jack screams at the kid as the round a corner in to an alley.

 

“I-“ Racer starts to argue.

 

“You wasn’t thinkin’ Racer! That’s what! I was trying to get you away!” Jack interrupts before Race can get a word in. They sprint through another alleyway, no destination in mind, just trying to lose the pounding feet resounding no too far behind them.

 

“You’s don’t have ta take care of me!” Race gets out between panting breathes. “You’s scared of the place Jack, I don’t want ya ta go back!” Jack thinks he can hear sobs in Race’s statement, which he begrudgingly admits isn’t entirely untrue. Though whether Race’s sobs are from his statement or his own fear of the bulls chasing after them, Jack’s not sure.

 

Jack rolls his eyes. “Not yer job Racer. Just like I told Spot and you years ago, I’d rather go back there than see either of yous go in.” He leads them down another alleyway. He thinks the bulls’ footsteps are getting farther away from them, but he’s not sure. His heart pounding in his ears sounds too much like their footsteps.

 

They zigzag through a couple more alleys in silence, Jack looking over his shoulder every couple seconds to ensure Race is still there. The kid is out of breath and it’s obvious, but he hasn’t fallen too far behind yet and he’s keeping relatively good pace with him.

 

Until he’s not and there’s a yelp of pain that sounds disturbingly like Race coming from behind him. Jack skids to a halt and leaps to run in the other direction, towards where Race is struggling under a bull. In one swift movement, Jack punches the bull in the face with one hand and pulls Race out from under him with the other.

 

“Get out of here Racer,” Jack growls, adrenaline pumping through his veins and pain emanating from his knuckles. He’d forgotten how hard people’s heads were.

 

All he gets in response is Racer screaming again, the other bull coming from, you know what? Jack has no idea where the other bull came from, but now he’s on top of Race and pulling his wrists forwards so he can – cuffs. As the sight of the cuffs, Jack’s heart stops and he runs towards Racer, hoping the other bull loses track of him for a moment.

 

Race is still screaming nonsense and squirming under the bull’s grip when Jack gets hit in the back of the head – hard- and falls to his stomach on the gravel. His vision goes blurry for a moment, but he’s able to make out the cuffs snapping on to Race’s wrists. His heart stops when the bull continues to soak Racer even when he’s defenseless and trying to curl up to protect himself.

 

“Stop!” Jack yells and tries to push himself up to get to Race. He doesn’t have a plan, not at this point, he just needs to get between Race and bulls, take the punches instead.

 

He gets himself upright, only for the bull going after Race to come over to him instead and punch him in the gut. The blow knocks all the air out of him and he falls to his knees and in the moment he’s winded, the bull who knocked him in the head is snapping cuffs around his wrists too.

 

Jack feels himself begin to panic. He’s going back. The Spider’s going to have him trapped in his web again. He swore he’d never get taken back there. He swore he’d never let any of his friend get taken there and now Race- Race. Where’s Race?  

 

Jack barely notices the soaking the bulls are dishing out on him, his eyes locking on to Race. He’s curled up on himself, facing away from Jack, but Jack can see the quick rise and fall of his chest. He’s breathing, that’s good. The bulls’ attention is on him, not Race, that’s good. A kick to his own head – not good.

 

His world disappears for a moment.

 

The next thing he knows, he’s on his knees, one of the bulls’ hands painfully holding him up by his hair. He’s chuckling darkly and Jack fears what’s next.

 

“Hey Paulie, I think we caught ourselves Snyder’s little runaway,” one of the bulls, the one holding his hair, chuckles out.

 

“You know Georgie, I think you’s right. Boss is gonna be pretty happy when we shows up with this brat,” the other one darkly laughs as he starts stalking over towards Race, throwing the shaking boy over his shoulder.

 

Jack wants to call out to his friend, assure him everything will be all right. It would be a lie of course, one Racer would easily see through. They’ve sold papes together, improving the headlines, for years now. Jack allows himself to be pulled the rest of the way to his feet, hissing at the pain it brings to his head. He’s unsteady on his feet, but the bull’s bruising grip on his arm keeps him upright and moving forwards-closer to the other bull and Race. And a wagon. How did he not notice the wagon?

 

He holds himself back from calling out when the other bull, Paulie? roughly throws Race in the back. Jack doesn’t complain when the one with the grip on his arm manhandles him in to the back. He needs to be awake during the ride to the Refuge. Check in with Race. He can’t do that if he talks back and the bull decides to shut him up by knocking him out.

 

After the door is firmly shut, the sound of the chain locking on the other side sending shivers down his spine, Jack scoots over to Race, putting himself between him and the door. His poor friend is huddled in the corner, head tucked between his knees, shaking like it’s the middle of winter and he’s without a coat.

 

“Racer?” He whispers, unsure of how best to approach him in this state.

 

Race slowly lifts his head, still shaking, and reveals the beginning of a startling bruise across the side of his face. The sight of it causes Jack more pain than any of his own injuries. “Jack,” Race practically cries, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks. Race reaches his arms out as if to envelop Jack in one of his signature hugs, but the cuffs prevent him from getting that far.

 

Jack watches as Race looks down at his cuffs, as if recognizing the metal contraption for the first time. His breathing suddenly starts coming faster and he’s desperately trying to pulls his wrists apart, like he thinks he’s strong enough to break the cuffs by simply pulling them apart. Jack’s afraid he’s going to hurt his wrists on top of whatever injuries he already has, so he grabs at the younger newsie’s hands and holds them still.

 

“Racer.” No response, just more strangled breathes and tears as his friend continues to struggle against his grip and the cuffs. “Racer, stop. You’s not gonna break ‘em; you’s just gonna make your wrists bleed and that really hurts.”

 

Jack doesn’t think he’s gotten through to the kid until he suddenly stops and slumps in to Jack’s side, crying in to his shoulder. Jack keeps holding on to his hands; it’s the best he can do in this situation as far as physical comfort goes.

 

“Jack,” Race whispers out beside him. He looks up to Jack with teary eyes, “I’s scared.”

 

Jack doesn’t have a response to that, he just tightens his grip on Race’s hands. What’s he supposed to say? That it’s not nice? That the Spider is a scary, vengeful man? That he’s going to be more hungry and alone than he ever was as a newsie, even though he’s going to be surrounded by other guys the Spider has managed to trap? That the pain is only going to get worse?

 

The carriage is moving now and Jack wonders how long until they reach the Refuge. He’s surely going to be separated from Racer once they get there, not that he has it in him to tell Race that, and he’s trying to keep himself together until then. He can’t give Race any more scared energy to feed off of.

 

“Hey Racer?” Jack prompts. He doesn’t want to say this. He wishes he didn’t need to. But he’s going to do everything he can to make sure Race stays as safe as possible. Race looks up at him, his normally bright blue eyes red-rimmed and swimming with tears.

 

“Yeah, Jackie?” Race whispers out, his voice thick from crying. Jack can feel him shaking beside him.

 

“You knows I’s been through here a couple times now, right?” Jack’s trying to keep his voice from shaking.

 

“Yeahs. You said twice,” Race corrects. Jack sadly smiles that the kid’s still got a bit of attitude in him.

 

“Well both those times I ‘scaped before I was s’posed to get out and the guy in charge, Snyder the Spider, ain’t gonna be too happy to see me again,” Jack starts. He muses that Snyder’s probably going to be _very_ happy to have him in his web again.

 

“Prob’ly not,” Race confirms. His tears are slowing now. Jack knows he’s going to protest at what he has to say next. He wishes he didn’t have to say it.

 

“So I’s gonna ask ya to do something and I need ya to promise that no matter what ya keep to it, understand?” Jack asks. He hates this.

 

“I ain’t promisin’ nothin’ until I know what it is,” Race protests.

 

“Racer,” Jack growls, trying to impart on his friend how serious he is. “You’s got ta pretend you’s not my friend, my brother, okay –“

 

“No,” Racer interrupts, not letting him finish.

 

“Race-“

 

“I said no,” Race almost screams and Jack has to shush him. He’s sure the bulls up front will be able to hear them if they talk too loud.

 

“Racer,” he sees him about to interrupt again so he gives him as best a stern glare as he can manage right now, “don’t interrupt. If Spider knows you’s my friend I’s ‘friad he’ll use ya against me and I don’t want to see ya get hurt because a me. So if he asks, and yes you’s gonna see ‘im in his office, you’s got ta say ya don’t know me.” He releases Race’s hands to angrily wipe away at his tears, which he’s failed at holding in. “And if you gets the chance, you run, and don’t stop until you’s back at the boarding house. Don’t come lookin’ for me.”

 

“I don’t care!” Race spits out. “I don’t want to be without you.” He leans more in to Jack’s side, hiding his face in Jack’s ribs.

 

This is killing him. The sight of his brother in cuffs. The prospect, no, likelihood of him getting hurt. He’d like nothing more than to keep Race at his side, but he doesn’t put it past Snyder to use their bond against him. He’s worried Race will end up more hurt by his side than he will if he’s alone. He can’t allow himself to care if Race is upset with his decision. This is how it has to be. This is how it is going to be.

 

“Racer, please. You’s got ta promise me,” Jack whines, the desperation evident in his voice.

 

“I don’t want to,” Race mumbles in to his side.

 

“Race, you’s got ta.” No response. “Please,” he pleads.

 

The door to the carriage is being thrown open before Jack gets a response out of Race. He’d been so focused on trying to get through to Race that he hadn’t even noticed the wagon stopping. He internally curses at himself for allowing his defenses to get so low.

 

One of the bulls reaches in and returns his grip to Jack’s upper arm, practically dragging him out of the wagon. The grip on his arm hurts and Jack makes a weak attempt to pull himself out of it, but the grip just gets impossibly tighter.

 

“Don’t even think about it boy,” the man growls at him.

 

Jack hears the door to wagon slam shut behind him and risks a glance backwards to find Racer in much the same position as him. Even in the brief glance, Jack can see his brother’s fear. He’s gotten impossibly paler, his eyes wide, and his breathing uneven.

 

They make it through the front door and in to the dark building. Jack shivers. The bull keeps his grip tight and keeps tugging him through the building, down the hallway to where Jack knows Snyder’s office is. The bull raps at the door.

 

“Not now you idiots I’s working,” Snyder’s voice rings through the door. Jack feels himself tense at the sound of the man’s voice.

 

“Oh boss, I thinks you’s gonna want ta take a break for this,” the man holding him gleefully replies. Jack could almost throw up. Does this guy not know what happens to kids locked in here? Does he not know what this man he’s kissing up to is going to do to him? Does he just not care? Maybe he gets some sick joy out of it too, just like his boss.

 

Jack can hear feet stomping their way towards the door, can almost feel the vibrations from the stomps through his own feet. Snyder is mumbling something. He’s angry. He’s worse when he’s angry. The door throws itself open and there he is. Snyder glares at the man holding Jack before his gaze turns down to him. A sick smile spreads across his face.

 

“Is this the one, boss? Did we find your little runaway; your Jack Kelly?” The man asks with excitement. Jack’s no longer sure if his arm is shaking with his own fear or with his captor’s excitement. He hates the way that he’s referred to as Snyder’s. Snyder doesn’t own him. No one does.

 

Snyder grabs at Jack’s jaw and turns his face from side to side. Jack scowls at him and tries to pull his free hand up to push away Snyder’s grip, but the cuffs limit his reach just enough that he can’t.

 

“Oh yes boys. Congratulations. You’ve brought little Jack Kelly back home,” Snyder grins, pleased with work he hasn’t even done. “How long has it been, Kelly?”

 

Jack refuses to answer, to give the man of his nightmares the pleasure of rubbing in how long he’s been free. Snyder releases his jaw to slap him across the face - hard.  

 

Jack can hear Race shifting around behind him, likely about to say something, so he unwillingly answers to cover up anything Race might say, “Five years.”

 

Snyder hums. “It looks like you’ve forgotten the rules already Kelly. Only five years and you’ve forgotten how to properly speak to your elders.” He pauses and looks Jack up and down. “We’ll just have to fix that then.” He turns away from Jack to look back at the man still holding him, “go ahead and put him in the basement. I’ll deal with him personally later.”

 

Jack’s stomach turns at the barely-veiled threat as the bull practically drags him down the hallway. He risks a side-glance at Race as he’s guided past him; trying to convey everything he said in the wagon through just a look. Race looks terrified and Jack can feel his friend's gaze follow him down the hall.

 

The bull that’s been charged with putting him away unlocks the door to the basement with his free hand before swiftly unlocking Jack’s cuffs and pushing him through the door, where Jack tumbles down the stairs. He can hear the door slam shut behind him and enclose him in the dark room he is all too familiar with.

 

He takes no time in gathering himself and moving to the far corner of the room. He’s terrified.   For himself. For Race. The morning’s events keep playing over and over in his mind and he questions what he could have done differently so that at least Race didn’t end up here. He hopes Race has enough sense to do as he’s told and disassociate himself from Jack. It hurts Jack to think it, but if that’s what keeps Race safer, so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expect this will not have regular updates, but we'll see. I'll try my best to get out a chapter a week (at least the chapters are long, right?)
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, comments/suggestions/questions are appreciated and loved!
> 
> If you want to bug me/talk with me/suggest a fic/get semi-periodic fic updates you can find me at my tumblr: https://writing-instead-of-sleeping.tumblr.com


	2. Race

**Race**

 

Race watches, eyes wide with fear and heart drumming in his chest, as Jack is dragged down the hallway and disappears from sight as a guard throws him through a door, securely locking it behind him. An internal battle is brewing within him. Does he do as Jack asked and pretend he doesn’t know him – a boy who’s as good a big brother he could ever ask for – or does he defy him and not lie to Snyder? Can he withstand Jack’s fury if he tells Snyder the truth? He wouldn’t be alone. Jack wouldn’t be alone-

 

The sound of a throat being cleared causes his train of thought to crash. He slowly turns his head to the portly man who he can only assume is Snyder. Race looks the man up and down, noting the smugly happy look on the man’s face, the buttons struggling to keep his waistcoat closed, and his pristinely shined shoes. Race swears he can see his reflection in them.

 

“Go ahead and bring this one in to my office George. I’ve got time to get him logged right now,” the man- Snyder, Race corrects himself, says to the bull holding his arm. He then turns and leads the way in to his office.

 

“Hey!” He can’t help but protest as the bull pushes him hard enough to fall to his knees just through the doorway of Snyder’s office. The bull then slams the door shut behind him, closing Race in the office alone with Snyder. Race hisses with pain as the door catches his ankle as it closes.

 

“Get up and sit yourself in that chair boy,” Snyder commands from his new position behind his cushy desk, vaguely motioning to the wooden chair to Race’s right.

 

Race pushes himself to his feet and slouches in to the hard wooden chair across from Snyder. The next few moments pass in near silence, just the rustling of papers from the book Snyder’s leafing through echoing through the small room. Race tries to calm himself; the mix of anger and fear swirling inside him slowly driving him insane. He knew this was coming. Jack told him he would see Snyder in his office and here he is.  

 

“So what’s your name kid?” The man tiredly drawls, not even looking up from where he’s spinning a pencil between his meaty fingers.

 

“Race,” he manages to reply. He inwardly groans at the undesired wavering in his voice.

 

“Aw, so you’re one of those newsie boys then. You’ve all got the most stupid names,” Snyder comments.

 

“ ‘S not stupid,” Race mumbles under his breathe while rolling his eyes. He’d be crossing his arms if he could.

 

Snyder slams his hands on the desk and glares at Race. “Excuse me?” he growls.

 

Race, riding a sudden rush of adrenaline, sits up and spits back, “I said ‘s not stupid. It’s our names. ‘S who we ares.”

 

Snyder coldly laughs and Race can almost feel himself deflating, folding in on himself at the man’s outright rejection.   “No self-respecting parent names their kid Race. Or Pickles. Or Blue.” Snyder sneers at him before a cruel smile pops up on his face and he taunts, “Oh, but I forgot. None of you have any parents.”

 

Race can feel himself bristling under the man’s glare. He does his best to glare back; refusing to blink before the older man.

 

“Oh, struck a nerve, have I?” Snyder chuckles. “You’re lucky I have other plans tonight boy, or I’d be spending the evening teaching you a lesson on how to respect your elders.”

 

All the brazen confidence that had filled Race moments prior floods away as he puts two and two together. Other plans…Jack. Hadn’t Snyder said something about reminding Jack how to respect his elders before he locked him away? What does he even mean by that?

 

Snyder glances over to his clock, “Well lets get this over with boy. I want to finish up so I have time to eat dinner before my evening appointment. But know that I’m watching you.” Snyder glares down at him and Race doesn’t have the nerve to challenge him back. The man chuckles as he takes Race’s silence as gained respect, “Maybe you’ll be a fast learner. So you got a last name to go with that, kid?”

 

Race looks down at his hands and fiddles with the chain connecting the cold, metal cuffs still locked around his wrists as he answers, “ ‘S Higgins.”

 

“And how old are ya Higgins?” Snyder asks as Race hears him scribbling something with his pencil.

 

“I’s eleven,” Race mumbles. Just this morning he’d been using his age as an excuse to be on his own, away from Jack’s side. Now despite his earlier argument, he wants nothing more than to never be apart from Jack again.

 

After scribbling in the book again, Snyder turns it to face Race and points at a line, ordering, “Write your name here.”

 

Race leans forward and sets his forearms on the edge of the desk, gingerly picking up the pencil from where Snyder had set it next to the book. He reads the rest of the line that Snyder has pointed at, but stops when he reads his supposed crime, “I wasn’t stealin’ nothin’! They just started chasin’ me and I ran!” He tries to defend himself, even though he knows the argument is pointless.

 

Snyder laughs, “Just be happy I only put stealin’ down kid. That’s only a month.” Race’s draw drops open at the prospect of a having to spend a whole month in this place. “Anyways, who you gonna tell, huh? And who would believe you, a worthless street rat, over my men?”

 

Race feels angry tears forming in his eyes and he, at least for the moment, manages to successfully blink them away. He isn’t worthless. Just ‘cause he doesn’t have a house or parents and has to work to live doesn’t make him worthless.

 

“Just hurry up and sign the paper, boy. You’re delaying my dinner,” Snyder finally orders. When Race sneaks a glance up to the man, he sees a satisfied smirk resting on the man’s face. The joy Snyder gets from making him upset makes his stomach churn.

 

Race scribbles his name on the end of the line, not bothering to take care that it was neat or even legible, before slamming the pencil down on the desk where he’d initially found it. It feels good, like a safe way to release a modicum of his anger and frustration. With a satisfied humph, he leans back until he’s once again fully seated in the rickety wooden chair.

 

“George!” Snyder calls from his desk, apparently confident enough that his goon will hear him through his office door. Nothing immediate happens and Snyder seems content with returning his attention back to Race. He slams the heavy black leather bound book shut and slides it off to the corner of his desk, all the while not removing his gaze from Race. “So, that boy you were brought in with. Do you know him?”

 

Race quickly shakes his head no before his brain can direct his mouth to say otherwise.

 

“Ya sure? He’s one of those newsboys too. I’m fairly sure of it,” Snyder questions.

 

Race nods in addition to forcing out, “Yeahs, I’s sure. He’s Manhattan and I’s Brooklyn.” The lie tastes foul as it passes over his tongue and it may have been for nothing, as Snyder’s giving him a look that seems to indicate he doesn’t believe him.

 

Race relaxes slightly as he’s saved from more questioning by the door slowly being pushed open.

 

“You called boss?” The goon, presumably George, asks as he pokes his head through the crack.

 

Snyder huffs before looking up to the other man, “Yeah.   I’m done with this kid. Go ahead and take him up.”

 

“Uh…which room boss?” Race can hear the goon ask from behind him.

 

Race shivers as Snyder once again turns his discerning gaze to him. “Go ahead and put him in room six.”

 

“Uh…room six boss?” The goon hesitantly questions.

 

A flash of anger sparks in Snyder’s eyes as he growls out, “You are not being paid to parrot back to me everything I say George. Yes, room six. Yes, this kid. Yes, now.”

 

Race can hear the man shuffling in to the room and closer towards him as he says, “Sorry, boss. Just that room’s pretty full-“

 

“George. You like your job, correct?” Snyder growls, obviously impatient with his hired hand’s mouth.

 

The goon comes to a stop at Race’s side, “Yes boss. I’s sorry boss. I’ll take him to room six right now.” He grabs on to Race’s left upper arm and basically lifts him out of the chair before pulling him behind him out of the room.

 

Race struggles against the goon’s grip just for the sake of it as he is pulled down a hallway towards a narrow, rickety, wooden staircase. He’s released and pushed in front of the man for the trudge up the steps. He risks a glance behind him to check for any chance of escape, not that he’d be able to get far with the cuffs around his wrists anyways, but finds the entire width of the stairway blocked by the goon’s girth.

 

Once they reach the top of the stairs, the goon once again grabs him by his arm and pulls him towards the end of the hall, which is barren bar from the six doors, three on either side. They come to a stop outside one of the doors at the end of the hall and the goon once again releases Race from his grip, but this time to fiddle with his ring of keys and unlock the door. Before opening it, the goon turns to Race and yanks his hands away from where he’s been curling them up on his chest and roughly unlocks the cuffs.

 

Race is too distracted trying to rub feeling back in to his wrists to notice the door opening and the goon thrusting him inside. He gets his hands out in front of him just in time to soften his fall to the wooden floor.   It may have saved his head from another hit, but Race winces as the rough floor sends splinters in to the soft skin of his palms.

 

When he manages to get himself turned over and in a sitting position, Race take a few more moments to rub at where the metal cuffs had chafed at his wrists. It’s not until he looks up to take in his new surroundings that he feels like melting in to the floor at all the eyes focused on him.

 

A good amount of time has passed since he has been brought in, and the room is shrouded in darkness, just the pale moonlight slipping in through the couple of windows. The more his eyes adjust to the darkness, the more of his new nightmare becomes visible to him.

 

The room is large, but somehow manages to still feel impossibly tiny. There are rows and rows of bunk beds, not dissimilar to the ones at the boarding house, lined up from wall to wall. At least three sets of eyes are staring at him form each bunk, but they’re missing the spark, the brightness, which he’s grown accustomed to seeing from his fellow newsies. Their gaze seems to go right through him, but spears him to his spot on the floor at the same time. He knows where he’s seen that look before. In Jack. When he’s been thinking about _this place_ ; before he’s spent hours trying to pull himself out of his nightmares by digging his nails in to his arms. Seeing that look in so many eyes makes him uneasy.

 

Unsure of what to do, Race stays where he is, absentmindedly rubbing at his wrists and mentally checking over himself for various injuries. He doesn’t think he’s got anything worse than bruises and a couple scrapes, but he’s honestly not that sure. Jack would know.

 

There’s a small shuffling sound approaching him and Race throws his head up from looking at the floor to find a little kid standing in front of him. She can’t be more then six or seven, he notes, as he watches her clutch one of her arms and slowly sway from side to side before whispering out, “There’s room on our bunk.” Her voice is too innocent and sweet and Race is left not knowing how to respond. “ ‘S not much, but ‘s better than the floor,” she continues in a hushed tones as she hold a hand out to Race.

 

He very carefully takes the girl’s hand and stands without using her for support. He’s not very tall yet, but she’s easily half his height. He shuffles a long behind her as she tugs him towards the back corner of the room, to a bunk bed pressed up against the window. There’s two other small kids curled up together, asleep, at one end of the bed, so Race takes a seat at the opposite end, pressing his back up against the small column of wall to the right of the window. The little girl climbs up next to him and curls up in the middle of the bed, thumb stuck in her mouth.

 

Race takes a moment to look around the room from his news position. The rest of the room’s occupants have already lost their interest in him and have returned to whatever they had been doing previously. A realization slowly dawns on him as he looks closer at the rest of the kids faces. He’s easily the oldest kid in the room. He scrunched up his face in thought. What was Snyder after, putting him in this room with all these little kids?

 

Race looks to the rest of the kids around him, wanting to find someone to ask the obvious, “Are the rooms all split by how old you are?”, but finds everyone near him is asleep. He can’t bring himself to wake them. In fact, he should probably get some sleep himself. Jack never really went in to details about this place, but from what he’s gathered, he should get some sleep while he can.

 

He must have fallen asleep in the position he sat down in, because that’s how he finds himself when he jerks awake. He glances to the window at his right to find the sky still occupied by the moon, so he must not have been asleep for long. The little girl is curled up under the window, slightly shaking, with her hands clasped over her ears. He reaches out to pull her in to a hug, ask what is wrong, but the moment his hand comes in contact with her small arm, she jerks upright and scoots to the back of the bed, her eyes filled with what he could only describe as pure terror.

 

Race jerks his arm back and holds his hands up in an attempt to show her he means no harm. “ ‘S all right. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. I-“ He’s cut off by a scream, well not quite a scream, but somewhere between a pained yelp and a full on scream. It’s not coming from within the room itself, or even from the upper floor, but it is without a doubt coming from within the confines of the Refuge.

 

It sends shivers down his spine. He doesn’t want to know why someone is making that sound, so full of pain that he can almost feel it himself. Glancing down at the girl again, her hands are once again clamped over her ears, but her eyes are still open. Race slowly reaches an arm out towards her and before he can whisper calming words or an invitation for comfort, the girl is at his side, huddled in to his ribs.

 

He slowly wraps his arms around the shaking girl, as appreciative that she’s there to hug as she seems to be appreciative of his embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shorter chapter and cliff-hangerish ending. Next one should probably be a bit longer.
> 
> Also, I may have another 2/3-chapter fic ready to be posted (the first chapter anyways) in the next couple of days. It'll be my first post-strike fic. How upset would you guys be with some Pulitzer POV?
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, comments/suggestions/questions are appreciated and loved!
> 
> If you want to bug me/talk with me/suggest a fic/get semi-periodic fic updates you can find me at my tumblr: https://writing-instead-of-sleeping.tumblr.com


	3. Spot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! (Also, Spot is really really hard to write). This chapter also briefly mentions some older newsies I made up for Brooklyn in "When Manhattan met Brooklyn". 
> 
> Also, do we know the names of any of the other Brooklyn newsies around Spot's age or younger?

**Spot**

 

Mornings in the Brooklyn newsies lodge aren’t normally happy affairs. They have no reason to be when all the residents have to look forward to is another long day on their feet, trying to guilt, or in Spot’s case, intimidate, the relatively well-off in to purchasing a pape just so they can afford something to eat and a place to lay their heads for the night. But this was normal and normal was okay as far as Spot was concerned.

 

Wednesdays; however, were an entirely different matter so far as Spot was concerned. Wednesdays were poker day and poker day meant spending the day bickering with Jack and the evening watching Race beat the rest of the newsies out of their earnings at poker. The kid had a gift for cards. Spot has long since stopped playing against him, but still enjoys sitting beside the kid and relishing in the frustration of the rest of the other newsies at the table.

 

Today was a Wednesday, which meant Spot actually woke up in a moderately better mood than normal. He walks instead of stalks to distribution and purchases his normal stack of papes before continuing off towards the racetracks, where Jack and Race should already be. As he walks away, he ignores the taunts from Stripes about how he’s ‘choosing to hang out with those Manhattan boys over his Brooklyn brothas’. He could care less what his Brooklyn brothers think about him, so long as they’re scared enough of him to leave his spot in line for the throne alone.  

 

It’s a busy day at the racetracks when he arrives; there must be a big race this weekend or something. Jack and Race are nowhere to be found and he shrugs it off as them running late or being lost in the crowds where he can’t see them. The crowd serves him well and he is able to sell out of his papes long before he normally would, to the point he considers going back to pick up more to reap the rewards of a good selling day. Maybe then he’d be able to afford taking out Race for ice cream on their way to poker later. The thought brings a rare smile to his face.

 

He decides against going back for more papes and instead picks a spot on the brick wall outlining the track to sit and wait for Jack and Race. He passes the time watching all the rick folks’ bet away their money and ooh and aah at the expensive horses like overgrown children. He sits there for too long, until it is well and dark outside, before finally concluding that Jack and Race will not be coming.

 

Spot chalks up their absence to either Jack or Race being sick and unable to make it all the way to the racetracks just to sell. He chuckles at the thought of Race’s complaints at missing poker night and calls it a day, thinking nothing else of it.

 

For the next two days, Spot treks out to the racetracks to sell, hoping to catch a glimpse of his – well, friends is probably the right word, but it seems too strong and permanent, so he’ll stick with Jack and Race. That’s who they are anyways and it avoids admitting they’ve become something to him.

 

By the end of the third day, Spot feels something akin to disappointment. He hadn’t realized how important he had let those boys become to him; how far they had wormed their way in to his life. They had become normal and normal was good, but not when normal could just up and walk away. See, the other Brooklyn boys may be his brothers, but just by name and tradition. He doesn’t actually have any relationship with them besides intimidating them away from challenging his place in line for the throne.

 

Spot would never admit it, but he was lonely.

 

At the beginning of the fifth day, Spot’s loneliness has turned to anger. He’s angry with himself. Angry with Jack. Angry with Race. Angry with just about anyone who dares to get near enough to him to be seen.

 

Stripes definitely wasn’t helping. The older newsie just didn’t like him, more so than the other Brooklyn newsies.

 

“You going off to find your ‘hattan friends again little Spottie?” The older newsie calls after him as he makes his way towards the racetracks to sell for the day.

 

Spot spins on his heel and punches Stripes right in the nose; smirking when he hears the satisfying crack that signals a break. After inspecting his hand to make sure none of Stripes’ blood has gotten on it, Spot crosses his arms over his chest and glares up at the older boy, who’s pinching his bleeding nose and screaming profanities at no one in particular.

 

“You little rat. I think you broke my nose!” The older boy finally directs his stream of yelling down at Spot.

 

Spot smirks. The other boy’s nose is definitely broken and he’s proud of it. “Yeahs, I did. And I wouldn’t a done it if ya hadn’t bothered me,” he says. A thought suddenly jumps to mind and he can’t help but share it, “Now’s ya can sell more papes than tha littler newsies. People take pity on boys with broke noses.”

 

Stripes threateningly growls at Spot before Elph finally notices the altercation and comes over to intervene, placing his arm in front of Stripes to prevent him from lunging at Spot. He looks sadly down at Spot before asking, “What happened?” The disappointment with his second in command is evident in his tone.  

 

“He broke my nose!” Stripes interrupts - practically whining, the sound unbecoming of a boy his age.

 

“Spot!” Elph admonishes.

 

Spot shrugs, not letting the smirk drop from his face, “He was botherin’ me. I was aimin’ to shut ‘im up, but it looks like I missed.”

 

Elph looks down at Spot, annoyance clearly written on his face, “Just go Spot.”

 

Spot glares at his leader for a couple moments before letting out a deep breath, shifting his papes bag to a more comfortable position, and finally turning to leave the two older boys.

 

As he continues his trek over towards the racetracks, the adrenaline from his outburst wears off, and a dull ache starts to form in his hand. Spot brings the appendage up to his face to glare at it, disappointed in its decision to hurt and potentially bruise. Stupid hand.

 

It really shouldn’t surprise him to find the racetracks devoid of any sign of either Race or Jack, but it still pisses him off. He’s become too dependent on having them there for company if he needs it. The fact that he needs company at all only irritates him more once he acknowledges it. He’s the future leader of Brooklyn; he shouldn’t need to depend on anyone for nothing.

 

He’s slow to sell all his papes, no doubt because of his bruising hand and scowl-set face. He could care less, especially since without Race and Jack selling in the area, all their regulars are still are still looking for papes. And for them apparently…

 

“Where’s Race, young man? Is he all right?” An older gentleman who reeks like he the liquor he’d been drinking the previous night asks as he buys one of Spot’s last papes.

 

“I don’t know,” he scowls at the man.

 

“Oh,” the man looks slightly disappointed. “Well, if you see him, let him know me and the boys miss discussin’ the horses with ‘im.” He takes a hesitant look at Spot’s bruising hand before walking away.

 

Spot in turn glares down at his hand. Had that old man thought the growing bruise there was from something he did to Race? Even with how angry Spot is with Jack and Race’s disappearance, the implication that he’d hurt Race hurts. Jack, yeah, he can imagine himself punching Jack. He’s threatened to do it often enough that it wouldn’t even come as a surprise. This is probably all his fault anyways and Race is just staying with him because he practically worships him for some reason. Race though? He can’t imagine himself ever hurting Race.

 

With those mixed thoughts, and a new determination to find out exactly where Jack and Race have gone off to, Spot starts making his way over to Manhattan. He drops his last couple of papes off with one of the younger Brooklyn newsies before he reaches the border and stuffs his bag in his pocket. He’s not ready to start trouble with anyone thinking he’s selling on their turf.

 

By the time he’s made it in to the Manhattan territory, the sun’s been set for a while already and Spot’s thinking he’ll need to go to the actual boarding house, the location of which he’s only has a vague idea of, to find anything out. As if the universe was reading his mind, he finally comes across a pair of newsies hanging out on a corner.

 

He comes up behind them, the pair of idiots haven’t even noticed his approach, he clears his throat, and asks, “Where’s Race and Kelly?” He crosses his arms for extra effect.

 

The pair jump around to face him, obviously startled by his discrete approach, and the taller one with glasses gives him a once over and asks, “Kelly?”

 

“Yeah, Kelly as in Jack Kelly. Now where ‘r they?” Spot asks again, impatience growing within him.

 

The other one with a comically large newsies hat sitting backwards on his head, who is obviously a year or so younger than the one with glasses humphs and crosses his arms to match his stance with Spot. “Who’s askin’?” He’s trying to sound intimidating, Spot will give him that much, but it’s nothing that will scare him.

 

“I is. Now where ‘r they?” Spot growls out, rapping his fingers on his arm with impatience.

 

“And who is you to them?” The younger one retorts.

 

Spot thinks on it a moment, wondering what to say that will get these idiots to finally cough up the information he’s been asking for.

 

“You’re Spot Conlon, aren’t ya?” The one with glasses asks before Spot can think of how to answer.

 

“So what if I is? Will it means ya finally tells me where the ‘ell Kelly and Race are?”

 

The one with glasses laughs a little, but it doesn’t match the expression on his face. “I thought you’d be bigger. Blue doesn’t like that Jack and Race go and sell with ya all the time. I can’t figure anyone else who’d come askin’ after them.” The other kid has gone silent now, but hasn’t backed down from his stance.

 

“So you gonna tells me where they’s at now?” Spot impatiently asks.

 

Both of the boys’ expressions droop and the one with glasses uncomfortably rubs at the back of his neck. “They’s been missin’ for a couple days now. We figures they’ve been picked up and taken to the Refuge.”

 

“Ya figures? Ya didn’ go and check or nothing’?” Spot pushes.

 

The younger one speaks up again, his intimidation tone dropped, “It’s not like ya can just go and ask about ‘em. And goin’ near there means riskin’ being put in yerself.”

 

“Where ‘xactly can I find the Refuge?” Spot asks. He’s determined to find out for sure where Kelly and Race are. The one with glasses looks like he’s going to reject Spot’s idea, so he holds up a hand and continues, “I don’t cares what ya thinks; I’s goin’.”

 

So that is how Spot ends up in from of an old, dark, brick building with no signage or anything. It matches the description that the two Manhattan newsies had finally given him. He’s also never seen any other building with bars on the windows, so he figures this has to be in. He doesn’t see any guards or anything on the outside and all the windows are dark, so he figures the building is safe to approach.

 

Walking around to the side, he finds a fire escape and pulls himself up on to it, pleased that even though the building itself seems old and lifeless, the fire escape remains quiet as he adds his weight to it. There aren’t any windows at the level of the platform he’s currently rested on, so he slowly makes his way up to the second level, where the platform runs underneath several barred windows.

 

Spot peers in the first window he comes across to find a room not unlike one of the rooms at the Brooklyn boarding house. There are lots of bunk beds and that’s about it as far as furnishing go. There are too many kids in each bunk and no blankets, not that blankets would really be necessary in the early summer heat, but it still makes the beds look barren. Spot tries to glimpse as many of the faces he can see, but doesn’t find any matching Race or Jack.

 

He does the same inspection at each of the next couple of windows before finally having some luck at the last one. He doesn’t even have to peer around the room to find Race’s familiar face, as he’s in the bunk just on the other side of the window. He’s sleeping with several smaller forms huddled around him. Even through the bars on the window and the dirty glass, Spot can tell it’s him. He suddenly feels a wave of guilt for his anger earlier in the day. It’s starting to look like Race and Jack just couldn’t come, not that they’d abandoned him or anything.

 

Spot slowly puts his hands through the bars and softly raps on the window. Race’s eyes jump open and he looks around the room before finally turning his gaze to the window. He softly smiles when he sees Spot and pushes open the glass pane separating them.

 

With the dirty glass no longer between them, Spot can now see the couple-of-days old bruise on the side of Race’s face and the concern in his eyes. “Spot? What you doin’ here?”

 

“I hasn’t seen ya or Kelly for five days, ya idiot. I’s come lookin’ for yas,” Spot retorts, lowering his voice halfway through when he sees one of the smaller forms on the bed shift in their sleep.

 

Race looks confused, “five days?”

 

“Yeah, ya missed poker night.” Race doesn’t look like he has any response to that, so Spot takes the chance to glance around the rest of the room and asks, “So where’s Kelly? He in this room with ya? I didn’t see ‘im in any a the other windows I checked.”

 

Race frowns and Spot swears the kid looks like he’s about to cry. “I hasn’t seen ‘im since we got brought here. Snyda’ took one look at ‘im and sent ‘im to the basement and I hasn’t left this room.”

 

Spot doesn’t know how to handle all this emotional stuff, so he tries to appease to Race’s logical side, “I’s sure he’s fine Racer. He said he’s ‘scaped from here before.”

 

Tears are definitely streaming down the kid’s face now and Spot is at a loss, so he pushes his hand further through the bars and sets it on the kid’s shoulder in an attempt at comfort. Race doesn’t even seem to notice his touch.

 

“I’s scared Spot,” Race finally admits.

 

“Aww Racer,” Spot ruffles his own hair with his hand that’s not pushed through the bars in discomfort, “you’s-“

 

“Not just for me Spot. For Jack too. He’ll neva’ say it, but he’s scared of this place. You’s seen how he digs his nails in ta ‘is arm when he can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

 

Spot lets out a deep breath. Of course the kid’s more scared for Jack than he is for himself. “Race, listen to me. You’s fine. You’s gonna be fine and so is Jack. Before ya know it you’ll be out and back at poker night beatin’ everyone.”

 

The tears streaming down Race’s cheeks slow a bit and Spot sees a small smirk on the kid’s face. “Next time, you’s got ta play too. Ya never play anymore,” Race finally answers.

 

Spot can’t bring himself to say no, “Sure thing Racer.”

 

The pair sit in comfortable silence, just the sounds of sleep drifting out through the window to interrupt it.

 

“I was just sellin’ papes and they started chasin’ me,” Race finally says. Spot looks to him and sees a blank look on the kid’s face. “I yelled at Jack ta run and he tried to distract ‘em instead. I wasn’ gonna let ‘im do that so I grabbed his wrist and made ‘im run too. He was mad with me,” Spot listens as the kid continues, rambling as if he’s just got to get it all out of his head. “But I couldn’t just let ‘im get caught without even running or nothin’. Then a guard caught me and I yelled at ‘im ta keep runnin’ but he came back and attacked the guard and anotha one showed up and got both of us.” The kid rubs at his wrists absentmindedly and Spot flinches at the idea of Race being cuffed. “Then on the way here, Jack tried ta make me promise ta pretend I didn’t know ‘im so Snyda wouldn’t use me against ‘im or somethin’ like that…” Race finally trails off in to silence, looking conflicted.

 

Spot once again finds himself without a proper response. He feels anger re-lighting within him at the idea of Jack and Race being brought in for what sounds like nothing, but he can’t communicate that to Race right now. So Spot keeps a straight face and distracts himself by looking over the other four sleeping forms on the bed with Race. They all look significantly younger than him, so Spot decides to distract Race and himself by asking, “So why’s all these littles here?”

 

Race looks at the sleeping forms around him and whispers, “This whole room is filled with littles. These ones were scared so they came over and sat with me and I ain’t gonna tell ‘em to leave.” There’s an alien protectiveness to Race’s tone, different than the protective tone he uses when talking about Jack. It’s endearing in an odd way to hear Race, who he’s still been considering a little, try and look out for even littler littles.

 

Spot reprocesses the sentence over again and hesitates with his question before asking, “What’s got ‘em so scared?”

 

Race looks around at the littles around him as if to make sure they’re actually sleeping, before replying, “The screamin’ and yellin’. I don’t know where it’s comin’ from, but almost every night there’s screaming and yellin’ comin’ from somewhere in the building. I don’t know whose doin’ it or why they’s screamin’, but it scares ‘em.”

 

Spot immediately puts this together with what Race had said earlier about Jack being sent to the basement and not being seen since. He inwardly flinches, not wanting to tick off the apparently still-oblivious Race. He diverts by patting Race’s shoulder with the hand he’s still got through the bars and sayin’, “They’s lucky theys got ya lookin’ at for ‘em Racer.”

 

One of the littles next to Race shifts to curl up against his thigh and Spot reluctantly takes that as a clue that he should get going. He gently squeezes the kid’s shoulder and says, “I should get goin’ Racer, but I’ll be back soon as I can so these littles don’t drive ya too crazy.” He tries to close their conversation with a hint of humor.

 

Race smirks, but sadness still seeps through when he says, “Ya don’t have to come back Spot if ya don’t want ta. I don’t want ya ta get stuck in ‘ere too. You’d prob’ly lose ya place for tha throne.”

 

“I’s comin’ back Race,” he insists before pulling his hand back through the bars and turning and walking back down the fire escape. He has to leave before he says something stupid like he was just about to. Race is more important to him than his position in line for the throne. And that scares him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, comments/suggestions/questions are appreciated and loved!
> 
> QUESTION: Do we know the names of any of the other Brooklyn newsies around Spot's age or younger? (I've been making up older newsies name, but I'd like to use some of the younger ones names if they are out there)
> 
> If you want to bug me/talk with me/suggest a fic/get semi-periodic fic updates you can find me at my tumblr: https://writing-instead-of-sleeping.tumblr.com


	4. Race

**Race**

 

Race is becoming accustomed to waking up suddenly and at random.  This makes it the third time tonight. 

 

The first time had been a surprise visit from Spot.  He’d been happy to his friend, but that happiness had quickly become overshadowed by fear that he would be locked up in this place too.  Spot had been a good distraction though and it had felt nice to get some of his feelings out of his head.  Sure, he was surrounded by other kids, but they were littler than him and he didn’t want to scare them more by sharing his thoughts. 

 

The next time he’d been woken up was by one of those little kids who said his name was Johnny.  He’d come up to Race with eyes filled with tears; just woken up from a nightmare.  Not knowing what else to do, he’d spread his arms wide for a hug and let the kid curl up in to his side and fall asleep in his embrace.

 

Now it was light out, but just barely.  It wasn’t too much past the time he would have been woken up by the morning bell at the boarding house.  By now he should have already jumped off his top bunk, had his morning “argument” with Jack, and bought his papes for a day of selling at the racetracks.  But no.  He’s here.  In the Refuge.  And he’s just been woken by the door of this room slamming open to reveal the portly man he’s come to assume is Snyder. 

 

“Up!  All of you get up!” The man yells and Race jumps from his place on the bed, pulling some of the littles with him.  He stands at the foot of the bed, rubbing his hands in his eyes to try and clear them of sleep.

 

When Race looks back over towards the door, the man who has come to wake them all is still standing in the doorway, scowling at everyone and everything.

 

“Okay all of you rats; time to get cleaning.  I want this place spotless,” Snyder growls.  No one in the room makes a move, either from fear or misunderstanding, Race is not sure.

 

The man punches the door so that it slams back in to the wall behind it.  “Downstairs.  Cleaning.  Now,” he commands, emphasizing each word.

 

Out of fear that the man will turn his fists towards them in place of the building if nothing happens, Race grabs the hands of the two littles on either side of him and starts making his way towards the door.  He can hear the shuffles of the other littles following his lead as he exits the doorway.  Snyder gives him a sick smile as he passes.

 

Once downstairs, Race looks around, unsure of what to do, until he catches site of an open closet door.  It’s overflowing with brooms, buckets, cloths, and other such cleaning supplies.  He tugs along the two littles whose hands he is still holding and makes his way towards the closet.  He releases the hand on his right to grab a bucket and some brushes. 

 

Race looks to his right to see the little whose hand he just released was Johnny and jerks his head towards the hallway t _o_ indicate that the littler boy should still follow him even though he can’t hold his hand.  The little kid seems to understand and sleepily stumbles along beside him.

 

From the very end of the hallway where they’d dropped to the floor to scrub it, Race can see the steady stream of kids, mostly boys but a couple girls are interspersed as well, appear from the stairs and continue on to find something to clean.  A couple of small fist fights break out over by the closet but they end quickly and without much fanfare.

 

The stream of kids finally comes to a halt without any sign of Jack and Race glances up from the floor to watch Snyder thump down the stairs.  The man gives one cursory, sweeping glance at all his prisoners cleaning his building for him before making his way over to his office and slamming the door.

 

The motion reminds Race of the slamming door after Jack was thrown down in to the basement upon their arrival at this place and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he wonders if that is where Jack still is.  He’s currently cleaning a section of the floor about a foot away from the basement door that Jack had been pushed through.  Race tentatively scoots ahead that foot and knocks on the door, straining his ears to see if he can hear any sign of life from the other side.

 

“What you doing rat?”  A deep voice growls out from behind him.

 

Race slowly turns his head to see one of the goons that had brought him and Jack in standing over him and slowly scoots back to the part of the floor he’d been cleaning moments prior.

 

“Oh, um, nothing.  Just thought I saw a mark on the door,” he anxiously replies, hoping it’s enough for the man to leave him alone.

 

The man crosses his arms and gives him a look that he takes to mean that his lie wasn’t truly believed.  “Just get back to work and stay away from that door you little rat,” the man finally says before stalking back over towards the middle of the downstairs open area to watch over everyone cleaning.

 

A couple minutes later, while he is cleaning the area directly in front of the door, Race is taking every chance he can to “accidentally” knock on the door.  He’s using everything at his disposal, the brush, the bucket, his elbows, everything.  No matter what he does he can’t hear any sort of response from the other side.

 

Just as he’s about to move past the door, Race glances over at the man to find him facing the other way and decides to risk knocking one more time.  He takes one last glance at the man over his shoulder before pressing his ear to the door and knocking three times as loudly as he thinks he can knock without tipping off anyone else to his actions.

 

The three knocks echo in his ear and yet he still doesn’t hear anything from the other side.  What he does hear; however, are heavy footsteps coming up to halt beside him and before he can even turn around to look at the man there are fingers wrapped in his hair and pulling him upright.  Race hisses at the pain and throws his hands up to his head to try and pull the man’s hand out of his hair.  He internally curses himself for the tears involuntarily forming in the corners of his eyes.  Behind the man he can make out the faces of the two littles he’d been cleaning with staring at him in shock.  He hopes they stay out of it.  He doesn’t want to see them hurt.  They are already scared enough as it is.

 

“Aww, does that hurt?”  The man taunts.

 

Race is too scared to answer. 

 

The man shakes him and spits, “You got ta answer me ya little rat.”

 

Race nods and it causes more painful tugging of his hair, even with his hands wrapped around the man’s wrist, trying to relieve the tension.

 

“You wanna know what’s in that room, do ya?” The man darkly chuckles.

 

Race slowly nods again, but by the time he does so, the man is already pulling a large keyring out of his pocket and is unlocking the door.  It swings open to reveal nothing but darkness and Race involuntarily shivers.

 

“Well here ya go,” the man shouts as he tosses Race in to the darkness.

 

He only gets a moment, mid-air, to enjoy the relief of no longer being held up by his hair before he’s tumbling down a set of stairs.  By the time he rolls to a stop at the bottom, the door he’s just been thrust through is already slammed shut.  Race lays there on the ground for a good couple of moments, waiting for the wave of pain to subside and hoping his eyes adjust to the darkness enough to let him see his new surroundings. 

 

When his eyes have adjusted enough that he can see some outlines of shadows inside the room, Race slowly pushes himself in to a sitting position and tries to get a better sense of his surroundings and possibly get a glimpse of Jack.  What he finds is a barren room with a dirt floor.  No windows, doors, furniture or anything to make it more than just another empty cell with the set of stairs he’d just fallen down.

 

“Jack?” He tentatively calls out in to the darkness when he doesn’t see any other sign of life.  He hopes Jack is here.  He needs Jack.  He needs his friend, no, brother.  And he thinks Jack probably needs him too, not that he’d ever admit it.

 

“Racer? ‘S that you?” He hears Jack’s voice come from somewhere else in the darkness.

 

Race feels the largest smile he’s smiled in days spread across his face as he calls out in to the darkness, “Yeah Jackie, where are ya?  I don’t see ya.”  He starts crawling away from his position at the base of the stairs towards the center of the room, hoping to get a glimpse of where his friend is hiding.

 

“I’s under the stairs Racer.  What ya do ta get yerself tossed down here?” Jack’s voice asks, more softly this time. 

 

As he hears Jack speak, Race turns towards the direction of the voice and finally sees his friend huddled under the stairs.  Race crawls over towards him to get a better look and seek out some comfort.

 

Jack reaches out and grabs his arm to pull him under the stairs to sit huddled over beside him before scooting over to give him more room.  The area under the stairs is cramped and Race is squished in to his friend’s side, but he still finds enough room to squeeze his arm behind Jack and hold his friend in a hug.  Like always, Jack stiffens under his touch, and Race swears he can feel his friend’s heart beating hard enough to jump out of his chest

 

Still not relaxing in to his embrace, Jack lets out a sigh beside him and again asks, “Why’s ya down ‘ere Racer?”

 

Race lays his head on his friend’s shoulder, wanting nothing more than more him to relax and answers, “We was cleanin’ tha dawnstairs and I didn’t see ya so I knocked on tha door I saw ya get pushed in ta when we got’s here-“

 

“And one of the Spider’s goon saw ya and decided if ya was so interested in that door ya should just be locked down here too?” Jack finished for him.

 

Race nods in to Jack’s shoulder, where his head is still resting and tightens his embrace a little.  Jack exhales through his teeth in pain and Race immediately pulls himself off of his friend.

 

“Jack,” he cautiously begins.  “Ya hurt?”

 

Even in the darkness, Race can see his friend wave off his question before wrapping his arm around Race’s shoulders.  “ ‘S just a couple scratches Racer, nothing ta worry about.”

 

Race doesn’t believe Jack, not one bit, but he knows Jack won’t talk about it and there’s not much he can do in the dark to try and help anyways.  He leans in to Jack’s touch and takes comfort in his friend’s presence. 

 

He doesn’t know how long they sat there in silence before he finally speaks up, “Spot came and visited last night.  Was wonderin’ where we was.”

 

Jack snorts before replying, “He was wonderin’ where you was Racer, not me.”

 

“Nuh-uh, he asked me where you was and said he didn’t see you in any of the other rooms he looked in,” Race hastily assures, more than a little concerned by Jack’s attitude.  Jack is Spot’s friend too.  He should know that.

 

“Sure Racer,” Jack concedes tiredly and suddenly it dawns on Race that his friend sounds downright exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in ages.  He mentally kicks himself for not noticing something that should be obvious to him with how close he and Jack are.

 

“Jack, when’d ya last sleep?  Ya sound real tired,” Race asks.

 

Jack hums and Race can feel him shifting to tug on his shirt a bit with the arm that’s not draped across his shoulders.  “I don’t know Racer.  We’s been here five night I think.”  There’s a pause of uncomfortable silence.  “I sleep bits and pieces when I can.”

 

Race thinks he knows where Jack’s statement is going and pushes, “It scares ya to sleep here, don’t it?”

 

Jack sharply exhales beside him and Race knows he’s hit the mark.  “I told ya before how sometimes I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout this place?  Being back here, its…I-“

 

“I think I’s got what ya mean Jackie, ya don’t have ta finish,” Race cuts off his friend.  He’s almost certain Jack was going to ramble on some nonsense about not being able to escape from this place in his sleep and Race doesn’t need to make him say that. 

 

“Thanks Racer,” Jack yawns out beside him and rests his head on Race’s shoulder.  It’s a testament to how tired Jack is that he’s being this touchy with him. 

 

Another long while passes in silence and Jack’s breathing has slowed down to a point that Race is sure his friend is finally getting some much-needed sleep.  He can’t hear anything from beyond the confines of the room and wonder how long he’s been down here with Jack.  And how Jack could possibly know how long exactly he’s been down here.

 

The door to the room slams open and floods little light in to the room.  It must be nighttime already.

 

“Sssshhhhh,” Jack whispers out beside him as he throws his arm out in front of Race.  “If he’s drunk enough he won’t think ta look under here and will just go back upstairs.”

 

Race’s heart speeds up with each heavy footstep that draws closer to them.

 

“Ah, fuck,” the man whispers and suddenly there is a candle lit and orange light flickering in the dark room.  It gets brighter as the sounds of footsteps come closer.

 

“Shit,” Jack spits outs under his breath and quickly turns to Race and whispers, “He’s not drunk enough to forget I’s here, but hopefully he forgot or doesn’t knows yous here so stay put, got it?”

 

Race barely has time to give Jack a shaky nod before a hand appears near their feet and Jack pushed his own ankle in to it’s grasp.

 

“Got ya!” The man giggles as he pulls Jack out from their hiding spot.  He’s definitely drunk, just not as drunk as Jack had clearly been hoping.  He’s never heard an adult man giggle like that and he can smell the rank alcohol drifting off his clothes.

 

Race can’t see much of what’s happening from his place under the stairs, where his view is blocked by the wood paneling at the edge.  He can; however, see the shadows in the candlelight of Jack getting soaked.  Besides the sounds of flesh hitting flesh and the man’s grunts of exertion, the basement is filled with an eerie silence. 

 

He almost wishes Jack would cry out or say something just so he can know his friend is alive.

 

He shouldn’t have wished that.

 

He hears Jack cry out in pain and it’s accompanied by the man taunting, “Oh, hit a sore spot did I?”

 

The man must have taken another brutal kick at Jack because the next sound is undeniably a forced exhale, like Jack has been hit in the stomach and has had all the air knocked out of him.

 

Race knows Jack will be mad at him, but he can’t take just sitting by and listening to his friend’s pain anymore.  He ducks out from under the staircase, finds where Jack is splayed out on the ground, arms wrapped around his stomach, and throws himself over his friend.  Jack seems to be out cold and doesn’t make any motion to indicate that he’s noticed Race has disobeyed him again.

 

The first kick hurts.  A lot.  But every one that follows seems to hurt exponentially more so.  Race isn’t sure if the man has even noticed that he’s no longer kicking the same boy.  If he’s said anything, he hasn’t heard it on account of the sound of his heart pounding drowning out all else.  He tries to focus on one thing only, and that’s covering Jack as much as his smaller body can.

 

Like everything else that happened in this awful room, Race has no idea how long the soaking continues before he feels Jack start to squirm underneath him.  He opens his eyes to see Jack’s own slowly open, the green a startling standout in the bruises he can now see in the candlelight.

 

Faster than he thought Jack was capable of in his current state, Jack flips them over so their places are reversed and he’s once again taking a bulk of the man’s abuse.  Race tries his best to once again reverse their positions, but Jack’s grip on his upper arms prevents him from moving much at all.

 

“Get off me Jack!” He tries to yell out, but it comes out as more of a whine.

 

Jack glares at him and through gritted teeth replies, “Shut. Up. Racer.  I tolds ya ta stay under tha stairs.”  He slams his eyes shut and winces as the man continues to soak them.

 

Race fights the urge to fight off his friend’s grip and try to once again reverse their positions.  Jack doesn’t need to fight off both him and the man at once.  He hates to admit it, but he would probably just make Jack more hurt in the process.

 

Suddenly the rain of kicks and punches stops and Race is grateful for whoever made that happen until he hears another increasingly familiar voice growling, “Enough.  You’s done enough.  I told you I wanted him conscious.”  It’s followed by heavy footsteps retreating from the room.

 

The new man’s footsteps come closer until Race can see his shiny shoes.  “So, you two do know each other.  How cute, little Kelly made a friend.”

 

Jack’s weight is suddenly pulled off of him and Race watches as he falls to the ground at his side.  Jack’s awake, evidenced by his glare directed at the new man, Snyder, but his breathing is fast and he’s got an arm wrapped around his stomach so that his hand covers a bloody patch of his shirt above his hip. 

 

“Should I keep him down here with us Kelly, hmmmm?  So he can watch you pay for what you’ve cost me by running away your last couple of visits?”  He pauses, just to be dramatic, Race thinks, “Or maybe he could join you?”

 

Snyder has barely finished speaking before Jack spits out, “You leave ‘im alone.  Your problems are with me.  I’s tha one that cost ya.”

 

Snyder’s smile is bright in the dimly lit room and it makes Race want to be sick, “Look at you, admitting to your mistakes just because I threatened your little friend.  Maybe I should keep him around after all.”

 

“Leave. Him. Alone,” Jack spits as he forces himself in to a sitting position and places himself between Snyder and Race.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, comments/suggestions/questions are appreciated and loved!
> 
> If you want to bug me/talk with me/suggest a fic/get semi-periodic fic updates you can find me at my tumblr: https://writing-instead-of-sleeping.tumblr.com


	5. Jack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence, this is definitely the most violent chapter of this fic. If you'd like to skip it, scroll down and start after the ~~~ and you should be able to get the general idea of what happened.
> 
> Also, oof this chapter was hard to write. Things should start looking up after this though. Ish.

**Jack**

 

Despite the pain radiating from his side and the general ache from the soaking he’s just endured, Jack forces himself in to a sitting position and gives Snyder the best glare he can currently manage before growling, “Leave. Him. Alone.”

 

Jack quickly risks a glance behind him to make sure he’s properly placed himself between Race and Snyder before returning his glare to Snyder.  He knows he’s messed up.  He’s admitted he has a connection to Race and now Snyder is going to use that against him and he’ll do whatever he can to ensure he’s the one who pays for it, not Race. 

 

A twisted smile curls on to Snyder’s face when he realizes just how many of the cards he holds.  He knows enough of Jack to know that he’ll protect those he cares about at all cost.  Tonight is already going to be painful, but Jack is sure it will now be at least doubly so if he wants to keep Race from further harm – which he absolutely does.  He’s already upset with himself enough that Race felt the need to protect him and put himself in harm’s way just minutes earlier and he’s not letting that continue.

 

“Do whatever you wants ta me, but leave ‘im out of this,” Jack spits out.  “Send ‘im upstairs.”  He knows his begging will be useless.  He could probably get on his knees and grovel at the man’s feet without any luck.

 

Snyder actually laughs and shivers run their way up Jack’s spine.  “You’d like that wouldn’t you?”  He pauses and takes a step towards Jack.  “No, I think he’ll stay right here.  Make sure you behave for me.”

 

Jack gulps.  He doesn’t want Race to see what is coming.  The feeling overwhelms that of his own fear at the pain he knows is coming.

 

Snyder starts stepping around Jack to get to Race and Jack desperately reaches out at the man to try and stop his approach.  All it earns him is a passing kick to his stomach, which causes him double over, out of breath, for the second time that evening.  He struggles to recover and return his attention to the situation at hand.

 

When his vision clears, Jack sees that Snyder has dragged Race over to the staircase and has pulled a pair of cuffs out of somewhere.  He’s in the process of forcing Race’s hands on either side of the banister so he can presumably lock his wrists in place there.  Jack hears the cuffs lock in place before he’s able to even try and make his way over to Race.

 

He holds his breath as he watches Snyder grab Race’s chin and lean down to growl something at the younger newsie, who’s face is scrunched up somewhere between fear and defiance.  When the man turns back towards him without harming Race, Jack finally releases the breath and momentarily allows himself to relax.

 

Then there’s a hand in his hair, gripping tight.  Jack bites his lip to prevent himself from yelling out in pain.  He’s not going to do that.  Not tonight.  He’s going to be silent tonight.  He can’t let Race know how much this hurts.

 

Snyder uses the grip he has on Jack’s hair to flip him on to him on to his back before kneeling beside him, pulling the pocket knife out of his back pocket and holding it to Jack’s chin.

 

Jack feel his breathing involuntarily speed up as the cool metal is threateningly dragged along his chin. 

 

“Last one Kelly, then I throw you in with the rest of the boys and let them do with you as they please,” Snyder chuckles. 

 

Jack rolls his eyes.  The boys upstairs don’t care about him none and will leave him be. 

 

The reaction was not lost no Snyder, who digs in the knife where it had been resting on the bottom right of Jack’s chin and he hisses at the unexpected pain.  “Oops,” the man chuckles out.

 

Jack squirms as Snyder adjusts his kneel to place one knee on his chest and pulls Jack’s shirt up his torso to reveal the cuts he’d made each of the previous nights.  Jack hasn’t been able to get a good look at them in the persistent darkness of the basement, but he can imagine the five cuts all neatly stacked up just above and inside his hip – one for each dollar Snyder claims he cost him by running away the last two times he was here.

 

Tonight will be the sixth – and the last if Snyder is sticking to his word.  He knows Snyder will take his sweet time too, especially since he’s kept Race down here.

 

Race- Jack had almost forgotten his friend’s presence.  Just as he feels the knife start to dig in above the rest of the cuts, he forces out, “Racer.  Please don’t watch.  Please.”  He’s begging and he hates it, but he doesn’t want Race to see this.

 

Jack doesn’t hear if Race responds, too focused on not screaming as the man continues – taking his damn time just like he expected he would.  The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth as he bites down hard enough on the inside of his cheek to break skin.  He is not going to scream.  Not tonight.  Not this time.  Not in front of Race.  He hands search for something to grip on the ground, but just pulls together small piles of dirt under his palms.

 

“Staying quiet tonight are you little Kelly?” Snyder growls out some point later.  Jack wearily blinks his eyes open, not really having a concept of how much time had passed.  Was Snyder done?  Had he managed to not scream?  His jaw hurts from being clenched so tight and his breaths are coming way too fast.

 

Snyder leans down so that his face is entirely too close to Jack’s for him to be comfortable and he whispers out, “You want one more?”

 

Jack quickly shakes his head no.  He doesn’t know why Snyder’s bothering to ask except to get some wicked pleasure out of it.  It’s not like he’s really going to take his answer in to account. 

 

Snyder leans even closer and growls out, “What if I promise to release your little friend by the end of the week?”

 

Jack’s eyes snap open.  Would Snyder really do that?  He’s not taking any chances; he’ll take the pain for even a chance of Race getting out of this place earlier.  He nods quickly.  Snyder’s wicked smile is way too happy for Jack. 

 

Snyder returns the knife to the stack of cuts, this time at the bottom, on the more sensitive flesh just inside his hip bone.  Jack involuntarily whimpers.  He can’t scream.  He won’t scream.  But he’s exhausted and he knows this is going to hurt more than the last one.

 

Snyder digs the knife in and Jack screams.  He can’t help it.  It hurts and he doesn’t know if it’s the placement of this cut, if Snyder’s pushing in deeper, or because he’s too exhausted to hold it back anymore.  Black spots begin to dance across his vision and then everything goes completely black.

 

~~~

 

Jack distantly becomes aware of hands gripping his upper arms and he panics.  He throws his hands out in front of him where the perpetrator must be and pushes the weight off of him before scooting back until his back comes in to contact with a wall and he can’t go any further.  He throws his eyes open wide to find nothing but darkness.  His heart feels like it is going to jump out of his chest and his breathes are coming so fast it feels like he exhales more air than he has in his lungs with every breath.

 

“Jack?”  A small voice asks out from the darkness.  Jack franticly throws his gaze around the room to still find nothing.

 

“Jack? Can you hear me?”  The small voice questions again from the darkness.  “It’s Race.  I’s not Snyder.  I ain’t trying to hurt ya.”

 

Panic starts fading and making room for actual thoughts to start slowly forming in Jack’s mind again and he starts to recognize the voice.  “Racer?”  He asks.  He winces at the sound of his own voice.  It’s hoarse, barely there.  He must have screamed before- “Racer, Snyder didn’t hurt ya did he?”

 

A small shuffling sound comes closer and Jack’s heart start to speed up again until he can begin to discern Race’s silhouette from the darkness.  He looks scared and Jack wishes he could just dig a hole and hide.  Racer was scared because of him and that was never supposed to happen.  None of this was ever supposed to happen.

 

“I’s okay Jackie,” Race’s small voice comes from beside him, where he’s propped himself up against the wall.

 

Jack draws his right knee to his chest – his left side feels like it’s on fire, there’s no way he’s moving it, and buries his face in his hands on top of his knee.  Even just barely curling over himself like this causes waves of pain to radiate from his side and he hisses, but doesn’t uncurl.  The earlier events begin to flash in his mind and he groans.

 

“Racer, I’s sorry I pushed ya-“

 

“You was scared and didn’t know it was me Jackie.  I’s okay,” Race cuts him off and Jack deflates.  His friend sounds so scared.  This is all his fault.  “Jack?” Race hesitantly asks. 

 

“Yeah Racer?” Jack doesn’t hesitate in responding through his hands.  He’s gonna talk through whatever Race needs, no matter how uncomfortable he may be with it.  He needs to make sure Race is okay.

 

“Can – can I hold your hand?”  Race asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

Jack finally uncurls from his position, hissing once again at the pain the movement causes him, before holding his hand out in Race’s direction.  Race grips it and squeezes hard, almost like he’s afraid Jack will disappear if he doesn’t hold him in place.  Jack tries his best to squeeze his hand in response, but he no longer has the energy to do much more than just hold his friend’s hand. 

 

The pair sit like that in silence for a long while and Jack focuses on trying to return his breathing back to something more normal.  He can do this.  It was worth it.  If Snyder keeps his word, Racer will be out by the end of the week and it will have been worth it.  Race will be out.  Race will be safe.

 

Jack leans his head back against the wall, “Racer?”

 

Race hums in response.

 

“How long was I out?”  Jack’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

 

Race squeezes Jack’s hand a bit tighter.  “ ‘S hard to tell, but maybe an hour or two.”

 

Jack inwardly curses at himself for being so stupid.  Of course Racer wouldn’t be able to tell how long he’d been out.  There’s no such thing as passing time in the basement.

 

“I’s sorry R-“

 

“Stop apologizing Jackie,” Race cuts him off again.

 

Jack smirks.  Race still has his attitude to him.  It’s a little bit reassuring that his friend isn’t completely lost.

 

“Jack, how bad ya hurt?”  Race’s hesitant voice come from beside him.

 

Jack debates how much he should tell Race.  Snyder had the candle down here with them when he was here, so Race probably saw everything, but he doesn’t need to know just how much it hurts.  “ ‘S nothing that won’t heal in a week or so,” Jack lies through his teeth.  He’s not sure how long the cuts will take to heal, but he’s fairly sure it’s going to take more than a week.  And that’s if he’s lucky and they don’t get infected, which would be a miracle given the fact he’s spent nearly the past week in the dirt-lined basement.

 

“If you say so Jackie,” Race’s voice whispers out beside him, clearly not believing a word he had just been told.

 

“What about you Racer?  Snyder’s goon probably got some good kicks in while you was coverin’ me – which I wish you hadn’t done by the way.  I told you to stay under the stairs,” Jack asks, ready to turn the attention back to Race.

 

“Nothing ‘s bad as what you’s got Jackie,” Race nearly laughs beside him.

 

“Don’t mean it ain’t bad Racer – spit it out,” Jack retorts.  He’s been through this before.  He’s built a strange tolerance to some of the lesser injuries – a tolerance Racer doesn’t have and he hopes never will.

 

“My chest hurts a bit on my right side, but ‘s probably just a bruise,” Race answers after delaying a couple moments.

 

Oh how Jack hopes Racer hasn’t gotten himself a hurt rib.  They take forever to heal, even if it’s just a bruise or crack and not fully broken.  But more importantly, “You breathin’ okay?”

 

Race takes a moment to answer, “Yeah’s I think so.  Hurts, but I don’t thinks it’s my lungs.”

 

Jack lets out a sigh of relief, having ruled out the absolute worst case scenario.  “Okay Racer, this is gonna sound real weird, but when you’s moving ‘round, does it feel like yer ribs are rubbin’?  I don’t know how to explain it better than that, but it definitely feels different than anything you’s ever felt before.”  Jack cringes at the thought.  He hates the way broken ribs feel.

 

Race shifts around a bit beside him before finally answering, “Nah, don’t think so.”

 

“ ‘S good.  Means it’s either a bad bruise or cracked,” Jack responds, assuring himself as much as he’s assuring Race.

 

“You means I’s gonna live,” Race asks, clearly joking.

 

Jack shifts to nudge Race with his shoulder, “Sure is Racer.”

 

They fall in to another comfortable silence that hangs around until the door at the top of the stairs across the room from where they are seated slams open, revealing one of Snyder’s goons.  He stomps down the stairs and walks right up to the boys’ feet.

 

“Come on you rats.  Snyder says he wants ya back upstairs in the boardin’ room,” the man drawls out, almost sounding bored.

 

Jack sighs as Racer nearly jumps to his feet beside him and expectantly holds out his hand to him, clearly intending to help Jack up.  Jack shakes his head no before slowly pushing himself to his feet.  He can’t let Racer think he’s hurt bad enough that he can’t even get to his feet by himself, even if he himself is thinking that line of thought might have some truth to it as he wavers on his feet.  Race gives him a questioning look before retracting his hand and staying right at his side as they follow the guard to the stairs.

 

They pause at the bottom as Race clearly waits for Jack to go first, but Jack puts his hand on Race’s back and gently nudges him.  If this is going to hurt as much as he thinks it will, he doesn’t want Race to be witness to any pained expressions that cross his face.

 

And yeah, climbing the stairs felt like all seven of the cuts on his side were reopening all at once.  He has to consciously prevent himself from placing a hand over his hip.  It won’t help the pain – would probably make it worse even.  He resorts to clutching the handrail with white knuckles and leveraging it to help pull himself up the stairs.

 

His breathes are coming short when they reach the top and Race gives him a concerned look.  Jack waves off the other boy’s concern and they continue to follow the guard towards the second set of stairs that lead up to the boarding rooms.

 

Halfway up those stairs, which Jack once again insists Race go first on, Jack’s knees give out.  The pain radiating from his side is overwhelming and he can feel beads of sweat sliding down his face.  He’d like nothing more than to just stay as he is for a couple minutes and catch his breath and recover, but he knows he can’t do that.  Race is already clomping back down the stairs to help him. 

 

Jack uses the railing to pull himself to his feet, grateful for that fact that his knees have once again decided to function properly.  Race still squeezes to stand beside him on the staircase and hold his arm that’s not currently gripping the railing, but Jack tries his best to not lean in to his friend’s support.

 

Race’s silence is scaring him.  He’s not sure whether it’s over the guard’s presence or over his appearance – Jack can’t imagine he’s looking all too great right now, but he just wishes Race would be his normal self.  That he could be his normal self.

 

The guard is stopped outside the first door in the hallway jiggling his ring of keys by the time he finally makes it to the top of the stairs.  When he sees them, he unlocks the door, swiftly grabs Jack’s arm from Race’s grip and pushes him in to the room. 

 

Jack falls to his knees again as he hears the door slam shut behind him.  A quick glance over his shoulder confirms that Race isn’t being locked in the same room.  He’s unsure whether or not that’s a good thing.  On one hand, he’s really like Race’s company and the ability to constantly check in that he’s okay, but this way he doesn’t have to worry about Race seeing how much pain he really is in.

 

He ignores all the eyes boring in to him from the other bunks as he pushes himself to his feet and forces himself towards an open bed he can see under a window.  It’s late afternoon, the sun already dipping in to the horizon, but the light makes his eyes sting after so many days in darkness.  When he finally collapses on to the bed, turned away from the rest of the room, he tells himself that’s why his eyes are watering. 

 

He tries to make himself comfortable to no avail; every position hurts his side.  Eventually he just chooses to lay on his back.  He’s so tired that it only takes a couple of minutes for fitful sleep to take him, the only reassuring thought in his mind being the glimmer of hope that Snyder will hold to his word and release Racer by the end of the week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you missed all the stuff I managed to post over the weekend: Bonds is now finished, I posted a one shot called A New Normal, and chapter 4 of this was posted.
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, comments/suggestions/questions are appreciated and loved!
> 
> If you want to bug me/talk with me/suggest a fic/get semi-periodic fic updates you can find me at my tumblr: https://writing-instead-of-sleeping.tumblr.com


	6. Spot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for falling off the face of the Earth for a little, school is INSANE. :)
> 
> If you're looking for more Newsies stuff, I started a new modern day newsies AU called Puzzle Pieces (and if you are following that, I'm hoping to get an update out in the next couple of days)

**Spot**  

It’s raining, yet despite that annoyance, Spot is making his way through the streets of Manhattan towards the awful children’s jail known as the Refuge.  It’s not really his true destination, Race is, but that happens to be the place he’s currently lock up in.

Spot growls as he steps in yet another puddle that was deeper than it initially appeared.  It shouldn’t bother him, not with how his socks and shoes are already soaked, but it does.  And he hates it.  And the rain.  And the stupid Refuge for interrupting his routine.

His Brooklyn “brothers” had, of course, teased him the moment they found out where he was going and mocked his inability to keep his Manhattan friends safe from the bulls.  Elph had been a bit more sympathetic, considering he appreciated Jack and Race for keeping Spot company and mitigating his tendency towards violence, but he too gave Spot a stern look as he had stalked out of the boarding house earlier this evening. 

With the sky darkened from rainclouds, the Refuge doesn’t cast as imposing of a shadow as it did last time Spot visited.   Just like last time, it sits on the corner of the street, dark and lifeless.  Remembering what Race said last time about the screaming, Spot strains his ears to try and catch it, but gets nothing but the pitter patter of ran drops on the building’s metal pieces.

Spot looks around one last time to make sure no one’s watching before sneaking around towards the building’s metal fire escape.  He grips one of the rungs of the ladder and tests his body weight again the slippery metal.  The last thing he needs to be doing is slipping off the fire escape of the damn children’s jail.  It would probably end up with him being locked inside of it with Race and Jack, which was exactly what Race had been concerned about during his last visit.

He takes special care with each rungs of the ladder as he inches himself upwards, before finally hoisting himself up on to the platform.  Spot kneels initially, letting the metal dig in to his knees, before slowly getting his feet under him and sneaking towards the window he’d found Race at last time.

The water running down the old glass of the window just makes it impossibly hard to see through, but Spot takes a leap of faith and gently knocks on it.  He hopes Race is there.  He can see movement on the other side, blurry blobs shifting about on the bed, before two apparent hands press up against the bottom edge of the window and pull it up.

It’s Race, but Spot’s initial excitement at seeing his friend falters when he sees the apparent bruises coving Race’s face and the exposed parts of his arms.

“Hey Spot,” Race sadly smiles back to him, wincing a little as he shifts.

“What the ‘ell Racetrack?  I leave ya for one night and I come back to ya looking like a carriage run ya over,” Spot growls.  He can feel a scowl setting in to his face.

Race’s smile disappears and he marginally sways away from Spot; the movement almost too little to notice, but it doesn’t escape Spot’s attention.  He signs and rubs a hand through his soaked hair.  He shouldn’t have talked to Race like that.  Race is obviously scared and now he’s scared of him.  “Race-“ Spot begins, but dammit he’s not any good at this feelings or comforting stuff.  He doesn’t know how _not_ to scare Race any further.  “I shouldn’t a growled at ya, but the ‘ell happened?”  He tries to keep his tone even, if not calm.

Spot frowns as Race winces when he shrugs, apparently not committing to an answer.  His gaze drops to his hands, which are occupied, picking dirt from under his fingernails.  “I found out who was screamin’ Spot.” He whispers, nearly too quiet for Spot to pick up, but he doesn’t dare try and move closer and risk startling Race again.  “It was Jack,” gets out with a sob.  “It was Jack.”  He repeats.  “Snyda’ was keepin’ ‘im the basement.”  Tears are slowly streaming down the boy’s face now.

He gives Race a moment to continue, but after nothing more comes from the younger boy, he pushes, “And how’d ya find that out Race?”

Race surveys the sleeping littles piled on to the bed around him – there are six of them now – before quickly whispering, “When we gots here, the bulls put Jack in tha basement and when Snyder made us all go downstairs and clean and I didn’ see ‘im I knocked on the door ta try and see if he was still there but one of the bulls saw and pushed me down there too.”

Spot takes a moment to try and process what Race just said.  Race had spit it out so fast, he’s sure he missed some of the details, but he thinks he got the gist, which he would sum up to Race not having any sense of surroundings or self-preservation.  He cuts himself off before he can tell that Race out loud.  Now is not the time.  He’s not sure what Race needs right now, but it is certainly not a lecture.

The pair, plus the littles, sit in silence for a while, before Race’s face flashes with an unrecognizable expression and he whip his head around to face Spot once again.  “Can you check the other windows for Jack?  When they took me out of the basement, they took ‘im out too.”

Spot can place the expression now and it’s something between hope and desperation.  He can’t say no to that.  If Race needs him to talk to Jack, then that’s what he’s gonna do.  “You knows what room he might be in?”

Race looks back towards the door of the room and does some pointing with his hands, wincing all the while, before finally returning his gaze to Spot and rushing out, “They pushed ‘im in to the first room on this side of the hall, so that ways I think.”  He points in the direction that Spot had come from.

Spot hesitates for a moment before trying to lighten Race’s mood with, “I’ll comes back in a couple minutes Race and I ‘xpects ya to not look any worse.  Got it?”

Race sadly smiles and Spot takes that as his cue to leave, sneaking back down the fire escape to come to a stop at the first window on this level.  Once again, the rain waterfalls down the old glass and he can not tell what is on the other side.  He imagines it is another bunk room, looking much like the one Race is in, but he can’t rely on that being true.  For all he knows, he’s managed to find the wrong window and Snyder himself is sitting on the other side doing paperwork or whatever else his job entails.  He knocks quietly, hoping that by some miracle Jack has managed to find himself in the bed on the other side.

After a minute of nothing happening, he knocks again, just a bit harder.  The vibration on of the glass interrupts the steady stream of water flowing down the window and Spot is able to get just enough of a glimpse through the window to figure that the room is indeed another bunk room.

Pale blobs appear at the bottom of the window; hands – Spot’s brain provides – why would they be anything else?

The window budges slowly and intermittently.  Spot gets frustrated and ends up pushing his hands through the metal bars once again to help pull it up from his side.

“Hey Spotty,” Jack’s breathy voice come from the other side. 

Spot has to press his head to the bars to see Jack, who appears to have fallen back on to the bed once the window was opened.  He doesn’t look good.  He’s pale and even in the pale moonlight, sweat glistens on his forehead.  Like Race, he’s also covered in bruises.

“You look like shit Kelly,” he comments, not sure what else to say and deciding to not put in the effort figure out whether or not it’s an appropriate thing to say at this time.

Jack closes his eyes and smirks, “Thank Spotty, I was just wonderin’ how I looked.  How’d you know?”

Spot rolls his eyes at Jack’s attempt at humor.  It’s a stark contrast to Race’s sullen demeanor and he’s not sure which one is worse. 

He’s shocked out of his thoughts by Jack’s hand grasping for the bar he had just had his head resting against.  The boy’s knuckles are white as he clings on and pulls himself in to a sitting position, keeping his left hand over his left hip.  He lays his head against the bars, not even flinching when the rain splatters in to his hair and drips down his face.

“Seriously Jack, ya look like shit,” Spot repeats as he watches the other boy’s grip on the window tighten to keep him upright.  His eyes are closed again and his breathes are coming short.  Spot’s fairly sure Jack heard him, but he doesn’t respond.

“Race’s covered in bruises too, won’t tell me much more than he got thrown down in the basement with ya,” Spot starts, hoping Jack will continue the thought and explain.

Jack takes a deep breath and shifts back from the bars for a moment, only to allow his head to fall back on to it with a soft thud.  “Told ‘im ta stay unda the stairs.

Spot rolls his eyes yet again.  Race may worship Jack for whatever reason, but he’s got the same savior complex as Jack.  No doubt because he wanted to be just like him.  If Jack thought Race would actually stay hidden while he was getting soaked, which is pretty apparent what happened from his state, Jack’s more of an idiot than he thought.

“Ya didn’ really ‘xpect ‘im ta stay hidden while yous was getting soaked, did ya?” Spot dryly asks.

All he gets in response is a shrug.  Even the simple motion has Jack hissing with pain. 

“You gonna go back and talk ta Race tonight?” Jack’s voice weakly comes from where he’s laid his head on his arm.

“Yeahs, told ‘im I’d come back after I talked to ya,” Spot tries to keep his voice flat.  It’s not an admission to caring about Race.  It’s just a statement.  Jack can’t think anything different.

“If there’s ‘nough light, will ya ask ‘im to show ya where his chest hurts?  Not much we can do and I don’t think it’s broken.  Don’t won’t him worrying that I’m wrong.”

Spot tries to ignore the implication that Jack knows enough about broken ribs to know what they look like and feel like.  He himself doesn’t have much experience with broken ribs, other than the ones he’s seen on others.  He learned to stand up for himself pretty quickly after he met Jack and Race and has had too much trouble he can’t take care of since.

“Sure Kelly,” he confirms. 

Jack’s hand slips from the bar he’d been clutching to in order to keep himself upright and he falls back to the bed.  Spot has to lean forward to see him again and presses his face to the bars.  Jack’s left hand is still clutching at his left hip and he can now make out the darkening of his shirt underneath the hand.  He’s obviously hurt beyond what he knows how to take care of, or beyond what he can feasibly take care of right now.

“Pull up yer shirt Kelly,” he growls out, unafraid of scaring Jack with his tone of voice.

“Spot-“

“I said pull up yer shirt Kelly or I’ll tell Racer just how bad off ya is,” he threatens. 

Jack eyes open once again to glare at him.  Spot smirks.  He’s known Jack long enough to know his soft spots and not appearing weak or hurt in front of Race is definitely one of them.  He watches as Jack shifts his hand, which is stained red from blood, to pull up the bottom left corner of his shirt.

Spot suppresses the urge to wince at what he sees.  Just inside Jack’s hip are seven stacked cuts running across his abdomen.  The middle ones are red and inflamed, evident signs of infection setting in, and the bottom one is still slowly seeping blood.  The cuts are neat and deliberate, making Spot wonder after what their purpose.  Around the entire area are bruises and though Jack didn’t life up his shirt any farther than necessary to reveal the cuts, Spot imagines the bruises continue elsewhere.

“Don’t tell Race.  Please,” Jack whines before tugging his shirt back down and gently letting it fall back over the cuts.

Spot huffs, watching the water splatter off his face as he does so, “Sure Kelly.  SO long as ya tell me why the ‘ell someone’s been carvin’ ya like some fancy ham.”

The comparison gets a small smirk out of Jack before he whispers, “Six for the dollars I cost Snyder by runnin’ away the last two times.”

“And the last one-“

“Snyder said he’d release Racer by the end of tha week if I let ‘im do an extra one.  He would a done it anyway though.  He’d already decided,” Jack winces out.

What Jack just revealed weighs heavy on Spot’s mind, blurring his thoughts together for a moment.  Race-released-end of week.  “Ya didn’t think ta start with that Kelly?  That Race is getting out by the end of the week?”

Jack shrugs, though the movement is barely noticeable.  “Can’t trust Snyda to keep ‘is word.”

“Ya didn’ think ta warn me just in case so I can keep an eye out for ‘im?” Spot growls, angry with Jack once again.

Jack’s eyes wearily open and Spot thinks he detects surprise in the other boy’s glare.

“ ‘Course I’s gonna look out for ‘im Kelly.  He may be ‘hattan, but he’s my-“ he hesitates, unwilling to commit to the word that is on the tip of his tongue before just spitting it out, “friend too.”

Jack closes his eyes again and his chest rattles with a small chuckle.  “Thanks Spotty.” A momentary silence.  “Don’t tell Race-“

“That ya look like shit?  Wouldn’ think of it.  He’s already trying ta be ya and take care of all the other littles in that room with ya.”  It’s not until he says it out loud that Spot realizes that is exactly what Rece is doing – trying to be just like Jack for those littles.

Jack eyes shoot open, “Wait, he’s in room six?”

Spot shrugs.  There isn’t exactly room numbers on the outside of the building.

Jack props himself on his elbows and winces, “The rest of tha kids in ‘is room, are they all littles?  Like real little?”

Spot nods, “Yeahs.  He’s got about ten of ‘im curled up in the same bed as ‘im.”

Jack falls backwards and runs his hands through his hair, weakly tugging on it.

“What’s wrong with room six, Kelly?” He growls again, sensing Jack is hiding something from him.

Jack’s hand’s move down to rest over his eyes.  “Spotty – you’s got ta tell ‘im that if anyone other than the Spida comes in that room that he’s got ta hide or be tha worst behaved little he’s ever seen.”

Spot growls with frustration.  “That ain’t no explanation Kelly.  And I ain’t tellin’ ‘im unless ya explain.”

Jack lets out a high pitched whine of frustration.  “Spotty-“

“Kelly-“

“Room six-“ he pauses and takes a shaky deep breath “-it’s tha room Snyda puts all the real little littles in.  Ones who ain’t done nothin’ to get themselves put in here ‘xcept not having a home.  And Snyda’s got these real rich friends and if they comes to ‘im looking for a new maid or doorman to train or just a pet-“ ,he spits out the last word, “Snyda brings ‘em to that room and they get’s theys choice.  For a price, I’s sure.”  He takes another deep breath before more quietely continuing, “Racer’s too old for that room.  I don’ know why he’d put ‘im there.”

Spot takes a deep breath to match Jack’s.  Yeah, seeing Race look all black and blue was awful enough, but now he’s also got to worry about ‘im being sold off like some pet.  Spot shakes his head.  He’s Spot Conlon.  He doesn’t worry.  But he is.  And he hates the feeling.

“And how ya know that Kelly?” He pushes.

Jack pulls his hands away from his face to return them to his bleeding side.  “First time I was here I was in that room for all of a week ‘fore Snyda decided he liked me too much.”  He smirks with the last couple of words.

Spot watches as Jack pulls his hand away from his side to view the blood glazed over it.  He winces for Jack, who doesn’t seem so much worried about the blood as he is fascinated.  He briefly wonders if the other boy took a hard hit to the head too.  He digs in his pocket for a moment before finding what he was looking for, albeit soaked through because of the rain: his old handkerchief.  He tosses it through the window and splats on to Jack’s chest.

“Clean ya cuts up Kelly.  They ain’t lookin’ good,” he commands.

Jack gives him a confused look which Spot pointedly ignores.  “I’s gonna go back and talk to Race like I told ‘im I would.  Ya want me to come back ‘ere after?”

Jack lifts the handkerchief from his chest and slowly tucks it under the corner of his shirt and wiping at the cuts.  “Nah, Spotty.  Just check in with Racer then get yerself out of ‘ere before someone sees ya.”

Spot nods and places his hands on the window to close it, hesitating for just a moment to watch Jack do as he commanded and try and clean up his wounds.  The window rattles as it meets the frame upon closing and Spot watches the slightly slower waterfall resume over the glass.

He quickly scurries back over to the other window to find Race holding his hand out in the rain, letting the water cascade down the shape he’s made with his hand.  Spot reaches out to grab Race’s hand and look at the now more visible bruises on the boy’s wrist, but the second he does the hand gets yanked back through the window.

Spot pops his head in to view to find Race clutching his hand to his chest, eyes shut.  He internally curses at himself.  He should have waited until Race saw him to go for his hand.  All he’s managed to do is scare him again.

“Race.  It’s Spot.  I didn’ mean ta scare ya.  I just wanted to look at the bruise on ya wrist,” he whispers.

It takes a moment for Race to relax and slowly open his eyes.  Spot wants to lean back and away from the gaze, because it feels like Race is looking right through him and at the same time skewering him in his spot. 

“Spot?” He quietly asks.  One of the littles around his whimpers in their sleep and Race tugs her on to his lap, where she immediately wraps her arms around his waist, causing him to wince and reminding Spot of what Jack said.

“Yeah Race-“

“ ‘S Jack okay?  He didn’ look good yesterday,” Race whispers and he lets his hands fall to his sides, away from the girl now curled up on his lap.

Spot sighs and glazes over the situation with, “He’s gonna be fine Race.  Just a little bruised, just like ya.”  He sighs with relief when Race seems to accept his answer.

“He said ya might have a busted rib and asked I look it,” Spot begins, unsure what Race’s response will be.

“I’s fine Spot.  Jack said it’s probly just a bruise or cracked.  Not broken,” Race whispers as he looks down to his torso.

“I still told ‘im I’d look at it,” Spot insists. 

Race looks up at Spot with teary eyes and Spot regrets pushing him so hard, but the boy does as he asks and lifts up his shirt to reveal a startlingly dark bruise on his pale skin.  With his other arm, he reaches around and pokes at the bruise, hissing as he does so.

Spot’s arm darts through the bars to grab Race’s hand and stop him from prodding.  “Stop it,” he growls before lightening his voice, “Yous just gonna make it hurt more.”  He slowly unwraps his fingers from Race’s wrist and is glad to see that he doesn’t continue poking at the bruise.

“I wanna press my hand to it Race; see if I can tell if it’s broken, ‘kay?” Spot tries to lightly ask. 

Race slowly nods and pointedly looks away as Spot lays his hand flat over the bruise.  “I’s gonna press a little, ‘kay Race?  Might hurt a little.”  Only when Race nods does Spot lightly press on the bruise.  He immediately removed his hand when the other boy hisses.

“I’s done Racer.  Don’t feel like it’s broken, but don’t poke it no more okay?”

Race turns to face Spot again and smirks, “Sure thing Spotty.” 

Spot rolls his eyes, annoyed that Race has adopted Jack’s annoying nickname for him. 

The rain has faltered a bit and the clouds are starting to part, enough so that he can see the moon starting to lower on the horizon.  He’s got to get going.

“Race?”

Race hums in acknowledgement.

“Jack said one more thing, about this room with all the littles-“ Race’s eyes glow a little with the prospect of getting more information from Jack.  “He says that if anyone otha than Snyda’ comes in ‘ere yous got ta be the worst behaved little you’s ever seen, ‘kay?”

Race cocks an eyebrow and gives him a strange look.  He’s looking for an explanation, Spot is sure of it, but he doesn’t have the words to explain.  He gives it his best though, “he says a lot of the little in ‘ere are just orphans and –“ he pauses, unsure of what direction he’s taking this lie, “sometimes people from otha places come and takes them to live in otha cities.”  He signs with relief as he finishes, then holds his breath as he waits to see if Race caught the lie.

Race yawns and shrugs, “Okay, I can do that.”

Spot continues breathing normally at Race’s response.  He glances once more at the sinking moon.  “I’s got ta get goin’ Race.”

Race softly smiles, to hide a frown, Spot thinks, before saying, “ ‘Kay Spotty.  I’s glad ya came.”

“Me too Race and I’ll try my best to be ‘ere when ya get out, but if I’s not I want ya to come to my boardin’ house, kay?” Spot has every intention of sneaking in to Manhattan to sell near the Refuge over the next couple days just in case Snyder wasn’t lying to Jack, but he wants to make sure Race knows to come to him just in case.

Race’s smile falters and he whispers, “Snyda’ said I’s gonna be ‘ere for a month though.”

Spot tries to give a reassuring smile and debates whether or not he should tell Race about Jack’s deal, before ultimately deciding against it.  “I’ll keep comin’ by then, ‘kay?”

Race yawns again and nods and Spot gives him one last glance before closing the window.  He confirms with himself that he will do everything possible to be nearby when Race gets out.  He doesn’t trust that kid to not do something stupid without Jack around and he’s going to keep an eye on him until then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! 
> 
> Questions/comments/reviews are always adored!


	7. Race

\---Midday---

The streets of Manhattan go by in a red blur as Race runs through them as fast as his feet can carry him.  Behind him, he can hear the pounding footsteps and shouts of the people chasing after him.  He swears that it sounds like they are gaining on him and it just causes his heart to race even faster.  Each breathe feels forced and no matter how many extra gulps of air he manages, nothing seems to fill his lungs.

Race isn’t sure how much farther he can go like this.  His body lurches forward, threatening to fall, with each lunging step forward he takes.  He doesn’t even know what direction he is heading at this point.  He just can’t stop.  Stopping gives the people chasing him the chance to catch him and – and do whatever it is they want him for. 

He’s so focused on just keeping his feet running, on rushing forward, that he doesn’t have any warning when suddenly an arm pulls him to the side.  Race blindly lashes out at his assailant as he simultaneously tries to back away from them.  The assailant keeps coming for him even when Race trips over something and falls to a seated position against a wall.  In a last-ditch effort to protect himself and hide the tears running down his cheeks, he throws his arms over his head and cowers.

 

\---That Morning---

 

The sound of the bunk room’s door slamming open pulls Race from sleep.  He’s slumped up against one of the bunk bed’s corner posts.  The young girl who pulled him to this bunk on his first day is stirring in his lap.  A glance at the entrance to room reveals Snyder standing in the doorway, a wicked smile painted across his face. 

“Up!” The man screams and the sharp bark echoes around the room.  Any kids who had been too tired or weak to wake at the sound of the slamming door now stir and force themselves to wearily stand beside their bunks.

Race makes the motion to stand and his body protests with every muscle movement.  If he had thought the brises had hurt last night, they are at least doubly as painful this morning.  He clutches the post of the bed to pull himself to his feet, unwilling to find out what Snyder’s punishment for disobeying him would be this morning.  Another glance towards the door reveals Snyder holding it open just for another man to enter after him.

The other man is tall, with a long coat and an umbrella dangling from his right hand.  Race searches for the right word to describe how he looks around the room, before finally deciding on hungrily.  Jack’s words, relayed through Spot the night before, echo through his mind: “ _if anyone otha than Snyda’ comes in ‘ere yous got ta be the worst behaved little you’s ever seen”_.  His mind revolts at the mere notion of misbehaving.  He already hurts – is already too sore for any sort of action.

His eyes track the man and Snyder as they slowly prowl by every bunk in the room.  He can’t explain exactly why he does it, maybe the fluttering of uneasiness in his own stomach, but as the pair get to the beginning of their row of bunks, he nudges the young girl holding his leg to stand more behind him.  She does so without protest, but he’s still very aware of her presence as she holds on to his leg.

Race stiffens as Snyder and the unknown man come to a stop in front of their bunk.  Snyder lets out a short whistle and taunts, “Looks like my man got you good last night _Race_.”  Race shivers at the way he says his name.  “Got nothing to say to that boy?” 

Race bites his tongue and shakes his head.  He wishes he could be like Jack, have some smart retort and be unafraid of any consequence that would follow, but he’s not him.  Snyder is scary and he doesn’t want to tempt him.

“You really are a much faster learner than Kelly then.  Too bad you won’t be around to help him learn; not to mention I’m going to miss you,” Snyder softly says as he leans in closer. 

Race feels like puking all over the man in front of him as his face pales.  He’s not sure if he’s shaking from fear, exhaustion, or just from his muscles betraying him.  Snyder was only saying so much, but it feels like there are volumes of threats behind his words – not only for him, but for Jack as well.

Snyder leans back on to his heels and looks down at Race with a twisted smile, satisfied with the reaction he’s caused.  His gaze lingers for a moment longer before turning to man at his left and asking, “Well, see any one you like?”

The strange man hums and rotates his head to gaze around the room before returning his gaze to Race’s bunk.  He leans to the side to get a better view behind Race and crouches down before holding his hand out to the girl still clutching Race’s leg.  “Well, I think this little girl right here will do just fine.”

Race grabs the girls shoulder and yanks her further behind him before growling, “No.”  He’s certain now that someone had lied to him.  Whether Jack lied to Spot and he just passed it on, or Spot just flat out lied to him, there’s no way this man was just here to take the sweet little girl behind him to live in another city.  Absolutely not.  He doesn’t have the words to describe it, but something about the man was too sinister, too similar to Snyder for that to actually be what was happening here.

Snyder’s face has soured now and he glares at Race with malice in his eyes as he warns, “Don’t you dare get in the middle of this boy.” 

The strange man makes a move to reach around Race and grab the little girl, but Race shifts to make the reach impossible.

“Protecting her won’t do either of you any good _Racetrack_.  Standing between me and any of these little rats will just end badly for you.  And if you don’t care enough about your own wellbeing, then maybe I’ll just have to visit Jack again.”

Race freezes at that.  He hadn’t been able to see all too well in the basement, but once one of Snyder’s goons had come to get Jack and him out and bring them upstairs, Jack’s injuries had been on full display.  Jack had tried so hard to hide it too, keeping Race in front of him as much as possible.  Last night had been the first quiet night in the Refuge since their arrival, meaning Jack was likely left alone and maybe had the chance to rest and heal.  Race can’t make things worse for his brother, but Jack would never let this girl be taken either.  He hopes Jack will let him explain later.

Apparently, Race had spent too much time contemplating his next move.  Having lost his patience, Snyder glances at the other man before grabbing Race by his arm and yanking him forward.  The other man reaches for the girl and she let out a high pitched scream that pierces through the silence of the room.

“Get her out of here,” Snyder growls to the other man as he grabs Race by the collar of his shirt.

Race watches helplessly as the other man essentially drags the little girl out of the room by her upper arm.  Every step further they take just grows the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.  This was wrong.  This was very, very wrong.

“Let go of me,” he growls out to Snyder as he tries to wiggle free of his grasp.  For the time being, the adrenaline coursing through his veins wards off any pain.

“And let you ruin a perfectly good sale?  Absolutely not.” 

Race freezes for a moment at that statement.  Sale?  For what?  Surely that wasn’t really what was happening here.  Something was off, for sure, but he had never considered that it was that bad.

“You know what?  I think my life will be a whole lot easier the sooner I get rid of you,” Snyder growls as he starts pushing Race towards the door of the room.

Race is still too stupefied to fight back.  Even when Snyder releases him to transfer his grip to his upper arm in lieu of his shirt collar, he doesn’t make a move to escape.  Only when he’s in the midst of getting pushed down the narrow set of stairs and he catches a glimpse of the girl crying and trying to fight her way off the man’s lap in Snyder’s office at the bottom of the stairs does he snap back to reality and start fighting off Snyder’s grip.

“Let her go!”  He screams at the man in Snyder’s office.  Race twists and slams his arm in Snyder’s grip up against the wall, causing it to weaken just long enough for him to get free.  He bounds down the last couple of steps and straight in to Snyder’s office, immediately pulling the girl out of the man’s arms.  She latches on to him immediately and he makes way to exit the office, only to find Snyder blocking the exit.

“Is this really how you run this place Snyder?  You allow foolish children to get the better of you?” The other man growls as he stands and towers over the rest of the room’s occupants.

“Absolutely not,” Snyder growls as he glares back at the other man.  He then turns his full attention back to Race.  “Give her here boy and I’ll let you walk right out those front doors and forget you ever existed,” he slowly commands Race.

Race hugs the now silently crying girl closer to his chest.  There’s no way he’s going to just hand her over to either of these men.  “No,” he answers in the most commanding voice he can muster at the moment. 

The man reaches for girl and tugs on her, trying to pull her from Race’s arms.  “Let her go, you worthless street rat!”

Race holds on as tight as he can, muscles protesting and hoping that through all of this he isn’t accidentally hurting the little girl.  He’s forced to let go; however, when something glass is broken over his head.  After the initial shock, he falls to the floor dazed.  Not a moment passes before blows start raining down on his small body.  Race’s poor attempt at curling up and protecting himself appears to be in vain as nowhere on his body seems free of the barrage.  He thinks he hears screaming in the background and hopes it isn’t the little girl, but can’t think of any other explanation.

What feels like hours later, a hand is once again grabbing his arm and painfully dragging him across the floor.  He expects to be thrown in the basement, but instead is thrown out in to the fresh air where he immediately tumbles down some stairs.

Someone, he suspects Snyder, but everything is wrong and blurry and spinning, is pulling his head off the ground by his hair.  Words, barely coherent, rumble in his ear, “I’m only letting you go because … ten minute head start … they catch you and bring you back here, I’ll make you regret it.”  His head is forced back towards the ground as his hair is released and Race just lays there in a haze.

He doesn’t know how long he’s laid there on the ground when things stop spinning enough for him to slowly push himself up and ono to his unsteady feet.  Race doesn’t truly understand or remember much of what had been said to him moments before, but he knows he has to run.  Far away, where Snyder or whoever he would send couldn’t find him.  That much was clear in Snyder’s statement.  He’s probably already wasted a good couple minutes of his ten minute head start just lying on the ground at the base of the Refuge’s front steps.

He briefly wonders if anyone had walked by and noticed Snyder tossing him out.  He shakes his head to rid the unnecessary thought, only to regret the movement as his vision starts swimming once again.  Race plants his feet on the ground to keep himself standing just long enough for his vision to become steady once again before picking a direction and forcing his feet to move him that way.  It takes a couple moments and a block or two, but he finally makes it in to a run.

It’s not long before he can hear men running after him, taunting him and calling for him to stop.

 

\---Back to Midday---

 

Race cowers with his arms crossed over his head, fully expecting to be kicked, punched, or any other form of unfriendly touch.  Even when he tries to distract himself, it still feels like the beating from Snyder never stopped.  The ghost of a hand is still gripping his upper arm, every breath a kick to the gut, and every thought another scream. 

“Race?”

A hand settles on his forearm, but it feels too much like another blow and he can’t help but yank away.

“Race, come’on.  I ain’t gonna hurt ya,” the same voice pleads.

Race doesn’t move from his position.  The voice is lying.  It has to be lying.  He can feel himself shaking and he’s not sure if it’s out of terror or the cold rain that has begun to soak through his clothes.

“C’mon Racer.  It’s me, it’s Spot.  Please at least look at me?”  The voice starts to sound desperate and if it really is Spot, which he doesn’t believe could ever be true, more emotional than he would ever expect to hear.  “Racer.  Please.  It’s raining and you’s bleedin’…”

He’s not sure why, but he finally pulls his arms down from over his head to hug his torso instead.  Glancing up, he catches a glimpse of Spot through the mix of blood and rain dripping down his face. 

“Shit Racer – that cut on your head ain’t lookin’ good.”  He pauses and looks as if he expects a response, his mouth curling in to more of a frown when he doesn’t get one.  He slowly extends a hand towards Race, “let’s get out of the rain, ‘kay?”

Race just stares at the hand his friend extends towards him.  A cycle of thoughts starts spinning in his head.  _That is Spot.  The hand is Spot’s.  Spot is a friend.  Friends don’t hurt friends. Take the hand.  Take the hand.  Take the hand._

No matter how many times he tells himself to take Spot’s hand, he can’t force his hand out to meet his friend’s.  He has to move though.   Spot is right.  He can’t stay out here in the rain and Spot won’t leave him out here in the rain.  That’s not fair to Spot to make him stay.  He needs to get up.  Race slowly uncurls and plants his hands on the brick wall behind him to force himself standing.  He’s still unsteady on his feet, but a glance at Spot tells him he’s holding back, staying away unless he’s likely to fall and hurt himself.

“We’se not that far from my boardin’ house Race, just a couple minutes,” Spot softly coaxes as Race pushes off from the wall and numbly follows his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for falling off the face of the planet. School got crazy and I've had some health issues. Thank you for everyone who commented on my various fics while I was gone (those comments really kept me going). I'm hoping to get a new chapter of Puzzle Pieces out tomorrow or the day after before getting back in to a steady update schedule.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments/fic ideas/questions/whatever are always adored!


	8. Spot

**Spot**

Spot does not consider himself a caring person.  Not in the least.  But he can’t imagine a better word to describe the current mixture of feelings he’s being subjected to right now as he looks down at the figure curled up on his bed.  Race had finally fallen asleep a couple of minutes ago, after wordlessly fighting with Spot every step of the way.  He’d refused help taking off his bloody and soaking wet clothes.  He’d stumbled back and in to a wall when Spot had reached out to help clean the cuts littering his head and ice the darkening bruise over his ribs.  Even with how badly his fingers trembled, Race had insisted on putting on the clothes himself that Spot had pulled out from under his mattress for him.  Then he’d just crashed, fallen over, in the curled-up ball in the furthest corner from Spot on the thin boarding house mattress.  Spot hadn’t been able to get a word out of him and was now left with his own thoughts.   

Spot had initially mistaken this feeling as concern, something normal.  He can be concerned about a bad headline meaning a bad payday, but this is something more – something deeper.  It’s as if every ounce of his being recognizes the problem before him and wants nothing more than to find a solution to make it all go away.  He can’t help but get stuck on the fact that Race is the problem, or at least involved in it.  Does this mean he _cares_ for Race?

He’s pulled from his ruminating by Stripes walking towards him with a smirk on his face.  Spot scowls and swears he can almost feel the rumbling of a growl in his chest.  Now’s not the time.  He’s not anywhere close to a mood where he can deal with this right now.

“Don’ even think ‘bout wakin’ ‘im up Stripes,” Spot lowly threatens.    

Stripes pauses for a moment at the threat before widening his eyes and taking a single, purposeful step forwards towards the bed.  Bending over at the waist with his arms smugly crossed across his chest, he sticks his face in Spot’s and whispers, “Oh!  Is little prince Spotty gettin’ protective over his little ‘hattan friend?”

Spot seethes, but doesn’t dignify it with a response.

“What happened to the other one, huh?  You beat him up too?  Why’d you only bring this one back with ya, huh?”  Stripes taunts, his voice gradually rising in volume and pitch with each successive insulting question.

The implication that he was the one responsible for Race’s poor shape and Jack’s absence is the last straw.  Spot has to clench his fists together in his lap to prevent himself from immediately acting his response out, “Unless ya ‘want a pair o’ black eyes to match that broken nose o’ yours, you’s best be walkin’ away right now.”  He leans in a bit towards Stripes face so their noses are nearly touching, daring him to continue.  He’d love to take out some of his pent-up frustration and _feelings_ out on Stripes’ smug face right now – so long as it doesn’t wake Race.

“Get out of here Stripes.  Ain’t your bunk on the other floor?”  Elph’s calm voice intercedes from somewhere near the entrance of this floor’s bunk room.  Neither of the boys break their stare.

Elph comes closer, to stand by their side.  Spot can see his worn newsie boots out of the corner of his eye, but doesn’t lean out of the standoff.  He refuses to give Stripes that pleasure.

“Yeah, I’s sure your bunk if upstairs next ta Salty’s,” Elph continues, seemingly ignoring the tension in the room.  “Now off ta bed with ya Stripes.”  When Stripes doesn’t make a move, Elph lowers his voice a notch and spits out, “That ain’t a request Stripes.  Off ta bed with ya or you’s spending the night out in the rain.  I ain’t gonna spend the whole night dealing with your nonsense.”

Stripes’ stare turns in to something more akin of a glare, but he hinges back to standing.  Slowly, threateningly, he turns his glare to Elph and roughly thrusts his arm out to point at Race’s curled up form.  “Why’s ya so focused on me?  Huh?  Why ain’t you askin’ ‘bout the ‘hattan boy sleeping in prince Spotty’s bunk, huh?”

Without losing a beat, or any of his calm, Elph ends the conversation with, “I’s still king ‘round here Stripes and I’s gonna manage this house how I sees fit.  Now off ta bed with ya.  Or does I need to show ya to the door?”

With that, Stripes finally breaks his glare and his shoulders slump a bit in defeat as he stalks out of the room.  Spot watches until Stripes is fully disappeared in to the stairwell, slamming the door behind him.  A hurried glance back to his bed reveals Race still asleep, oblivious to the tension and bustling of the room.

In the moment he’d been distracted by checking on Race, Spot had missed Elph sliding in to a crouch at his side.  “Racetrack, right?  The littler of the two that saved ya from the bulls a couple a years ago?” The Brooklyn king whispers out, apparently trying to be more sensitive to the sleeping boy beside them than Stripes.

Spot glances at Race’s sleeping form a moment longer before facing his king.  “Yeah.”  He can’t find it in himself to say anything further and shifts his gaze to the floor.

“I ain’t objecting ta ya bringin’ ‘im here Spot and I ain’t gonna make ‘im leave; I ain’t that cruel,” Elph starts before pausing and taking a deep breath. “But-“

Spot flinches.  With how that sentence started, he knew there was a caveat coming.

“Spot – look at me,” Elph softly requests.

Spot shifts his eyes up to emotionlessly stare at his leader.

“Look, I’s guessin’ ya don’t really want ta explain nothin’, but I needs to know what happened.  At least enough so I knows whether we’s got ta be on the lookout for trouble followin’ ya both here.”  Elph pauses to shift so he’s more comfortably seated on the floor.  “And I know ya ain’t the best at thinkin’ ahead Spot, but ya’s got ta remember you’s next in line for the throne.  Every newsie in this house is watchin’ ya every move and decision and right now they’s just seen ya bring in a beat ‘hattan boy in ta the house.  That ain’t gonna sit well with some of them and how ya handle this might make some of the boys a bit antsy and itchin’ ta challenge your spot in line.  I’s gonna do my best to keep ‘em in line, but you’s gonna have ta show face too.”

Spot inwardly groans at the thought.  He had been so concerned (is he admitting that’s what this feeling is?) for Race, that his only thought had been to get him to the nearest safe place he knew, which there weren’t many of, so he’d led him right in to the Brooklyn boarding house without even thinking about everything this could stir up in his own lodging house.  He hadn’t even thought to consider how his spot in line for the throne could complicate things further.

Race lets out a whimper on the bed beside him and Spot watches as the smaller boy unconsciously pushes himself further in to the corner.  Spot reaches out and hesitantly readjusts the blanket to once again come up to Race’s shoulders.

“Jus’ tell me what ya know Spot, then I’ll leaves you be,” Elph quietly interrupts beside him.

Spot doesn’t even know where to begin.  It’s not like the Refuge is as big of a problem for the Brooklyn boys as the Manhattan ones, given how much further their territory is from the foul building and the guards who keep it full.

“Race and Jack norm’ly sells over at Sheepshead and I goes and sees ‘em on poker nights…” Spot hesitantly begins.

“I knows that much Spot.  I’s got half these boys comin’ back every Wednesday complainin’ ‘bout how some ‘hattan kid’s beat ‘em out of all their earnings,” Elph interrupts.

Spot shifts uncomfortably in his seat.  “Well he and Jack ain’t shown up in a while, so I’s went over to ‘hattan to find ‘em.  Figured maybe one of ‘em was sick or Blue had decided to try and put his foot down for once-“

“Blue’s the ‘hattan leader, Spot.  He’s allowed ta decide what he thinks is best for his boys,” Elph interrupts again.

Spot bites his check and scowls at Elph for interrupting him again.  Couldn’t his king see how hard this was for him already without the interruptions?  Elph just raises his eyebrows and tilts his head to indicate Spot should continue.

“Anyways, I ran in ta some other ‘hattan boys and they hadn’t seem ‘em either and figured they’d locked up in the Refuge.” Spot pauses to see if Elph knows of the place.  When he receives a subtle nod, he continues, “and they didn’ even botha to check if they was really there.  So I got directions from ‘em and went and found tha place.  Climbed up tha fire escape and found Race by one of tha windows.  Didn’ look this bad then, just a couple a bruises.  Couldn’ find Jack and Race hadn’t seen ‘im either.  Went back a couple a nights later and found Race in tha same spot, but lookin’ a whole lot worse.  Saw Jack too.  He made some sort a deal with Snyda, the guy who runs the place, ta get Racer out early.  Next time I heads over, I find Race runnin’ by me and now we’s here.  Race had lost the bulls before I had found ‘im, so there’s no high chance of ‘em showin’ up.”

Elph lets out a long exhale and closes his eyes, clearly taking a moment to process what his second had just told him.  “And you brought him here…”

“Cause I found ‘im just a couple a blocks away.  He didn’t look like he could make it all the way back to ‘hattan and even if he could, I don’t think Blue would take too kindly to me showin’ up with ‘im like this.  The old sucker don’t seem ta care too much for me or Brooklyn in the first place.”  Spot clenches and unclenches his fingers.  He hates this sitting and talking part of the leadership politics and what not.

Elph stands and wipes his hands on his pants before heading out of the room.  Spot thinks he’s finally done with this conversation, but his king walks back in a couple moments later with an extra blanket and a resigned expression on his face.  Sitting the folded blanket on the opposite end of the bed from Race, Elph gives Spot one last look and commands, “You’s stayin’ ‘ere with ‘im tomorrow and until he wakes up.  I don’ want ‘im wakin’ up and wanderin’ ‘round Brooklyn on his own.  Once he’s awake, you’s gonna figure out what ta do.  You makes the decisions and you’s gonna deal with whatever consequences the otha boys think they’s got ta dish out for ‘em.  Got it?”

Spot stiffly nods.  That was fair, as was typical for Elph.  Elph nods to seal the deal and saunters out of the room.  Spot shifts to carefully seat himself on the opposite end of the bed from Race.  As he carefully lays the new blanket on his friend’s sleeping form, other newsies begin to make their way in to the bunk room and settle down for the evening.  Elph must have given them the okay to come up when he’d left the room.  Spot tries his best to ignore the whispered rumors flittering about the room.  He’s not in the mood to confront anyone right now and he’s got some thinking to do. 

 

~~~Early Afternoon the next Day~~~

 

Spot had hope by the time he had returned with a sandwich for him and Race to split that Race would have woken up.  Of course, he had been concerned (there’s that word again – the one he still hasn’t decided is right) that Race would wake up in the couple of moments he’d run out to the street vendor, not that he’d admit it to anyone.  Especially not to Stripes.  The older newsie had been sure to stop by Spot’s bunk on his way out that morning for another round of teasing before Elph shooed him away.

Falling back on the bed, sandwich in hand, seems to shake things enough for Race to wake up.  His eyes dart open and he swivels his head around a couple of times to catch his bearings before settling his gaze on Spot.  “Spot?” 

Spot internally curses.  Despite being asleep for nearly a day, Race still sounds exhausted.  He should have been more careful not to wake him.  “Yeah.  ‘S me.  We’s at my boarding house.  You’s been sleeping for almost a day nowabouts.”

He watches as Race slowly and stiffly shifts himself in to a seated position, still smushed as far in to the bed’s corner as he can get.  

They sit in silence, an odd sound for the Brooklyn boarding house.  Spot doesn’t know what to say and Race isn’t speaking, so he just watches as Race shifts in his seat to wrap his arms around himself, as if looking for some form of comfort.

“I wanna go home,” Race meekly says.

Spot rolls his eyes, “Jack ain’t gonna be there, ya know.”

Wrong thing to say.  That was definitely the wrong thing to say. The tears falling down Race’s face don’t even come slowly, the start all at once, cascading through the remaining dirt and dried blood on Race’s cheeks.

“Look, Race, I’s sure Jack’s fine and he’ll get out soon.  Didn’ he say he’s escaped from there before?”  Spot tries his best to lighten the mood, even though Jack didn’t look like he was in much shape for escaping last he saw him.

Race nods slowly and the tears running down his cheeks slow their pace slightly.

“There, see?  Nothing to worry yerself over.  Kelly will be fine and you can stay here ‘til we finds out he’s gotten ‘imself out.”

Race furiously shakes his head.  “I wanna go home.”

Spot sighs and tries to think of a reponse to that.  He hadn’t figured Race would object to staying in Brooklyn.  “Well if I takes ya home, then whose gonna walk ya ta sell at Sheepshead?  That’s if Blue even let’s ya leave his sights.”

A small, sad smill grows on Race’s face.  “I can walk myself-“

“No ya ain’t,” Spot interrupts.

Spot supposes he’s succeeded in doing something correctly considering Race’s tears have stopped, but now Race looks a little too happy.  It makes him uneasy.

“Can too.  I walked myself last time,”  Race almost smiles, pulling at a cut on his lip.

Spot freezes and feels himself tense up.  “Last time?”  He growls out.  “As in the day the bulls caught ya?”

The smile completely drops from Race’s face as he shrinks away from Spot, pressing himself in to the corner of the wall.  He slowly nods.

“So you’s telling me that Kelly wasn’t even with ya when the bulls found ya?  He decided that you, a skinny little eleven year old was capable of takin’ care of yerself?”  Spot can feel his face reddening as he distantly recognizes Race nodding. 

“What was that idiot thinkin’?” Spot venomously spit out. 

“Hey!  Jack ain’t no idiot!” Race shouts out beside him.  “He said Blue let ‘im sell on his own when he was younger than me!”

Spot furiously turns to face Race and yells, “Yeah, and where’d that end him up?  Huh?”  He ignores the way the red is clouding his vision and Race scrambles back to try and curl himself more in to a ball.  “The Refuge!  And look at where you ended up!”

A shaky sob comes from beside him and Spot vision immediately clears.  Race has huddled over himself in the corner, arms wrapped around his legs and head ducked to his chest.

“Race-“ Spot begins a half-assed apology as he reaches out to pull the younger boy in to a hug just like the ones Race has been freely giving him since the day they met.

“No!” Race cries as he pushes Spot away from him.  “Don’ touch me,” he cries.  “I wanna go home.”

Spot humms in discontent as he collapses on to the other side of the bed again.  “Well welcome home to Brooklyn then Race.”

Spot can see Race shaking his head even with how he’s folded over.  “No, I wanna go home ta ‘hattan and Jack.”

“Well Jack ain’ there and at least here in Brooklyn you’s at least got someone who cares enough ta look out for ya, so welcome to Brooklyn Racetrack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummmm, so three things.
> 
> -I'm sorry for disappearing. It hopefully shouldn't happen again.  
> -I'm not trying to turn Spot in to the bad guy. Keep in mind he's still only 13 and a bit short-sighted  
> -The little girl from the Refuge has not been forgotten and will be addressed in a couple chapters.
> 
> As always, comments/questions/suggestions are adored!


End file.
